


Collection To Be Named Later

by MachaSWicket



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet Collection, Gen, I blame tumblr for this, Reader's Choice - Freeform, possible major character death - relevant chapters will be tagged, same with smut - relevant chapters will be tagged, varies from canonical scenes to canon divergence to complete AUs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-18 17:08:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 112
Words: 128,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3577293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of ficlets, drabbles, and prompt responses, mostly from tumblr, for Arrow. Chapter 1 will function as a table of contents so you can pick and choose what you'd like to read (if anything!). NSFW chapters will be marked in the table of contents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Table of Contents

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the collection name is a baseball joke, because it still make me laugh that Theo Epstein called his charitable organization The Foundation To Be Named Later. NERDS UNITE!

**1\. Table of Contents** ( _Yes, I am a massive nerd._ )

 **2\. Challenge Response** : Olicity, #5 (giving the other a strip tease), and I’m going to go a step further, and ask you to use the follow quote from tomorrow’s episode: “I’ve already seen you shirtless. You are shirtless all the time.” Please & thank you!

 **3\. Challenge Response** : Felicity/Oliver, turning the other off

 **4\. Post-Ep Drabble for the Flashover** : _It takes a surprisingly long time for Diggle to really understand what’s happening one hotel room over from his._

 **5\. Episode Speculation Drabble for "Suicidal Tendencies"** : _The wedding reception is well underway, and Felicity is feeling no pain._

 **6\. Prompt Response** : OLICITY, two miserable people meeting at a wedding au

 **7\. Prompt Response** : Olicity, cop/person getting a speeding ticket au

 **8\. Prompt Response** : Olicity(ish), boss/intern au

 **9\. Suggestion** : established olicity, set in a plane.

 **10\. Smutty Prompt Response** : olicity, angry Felicity is his weakness ( ** _sexual content; please read responsibly_** )

 **11\. Smutty Spoiler-Based Drabbe** : olicity, based on Andy-That-Guy-on-Twitter-Who-Saw-Some-Filming-for-the-Finale spoilers ( ** _sexual content; please read responsibly_** )

 **12\. Prompt Response** : olicity, "Hey, I know this is weird, but you look to be about the same size as my sister--would you try on this prom dress so I can see if it would fit her?"

 **13\. Prompt Response** : olicity, established S4 domesticity in the loft

 **14\. AU Drabble Post 3x20** : Al Sah-Him is gone from Starling City and their lives for way longer than three weeks. Angsty fluff, or fluffy angst - you be the judge.

 **15\. Prompt Response** : olicity, “You heard me. Take. It. Off.”

 **16\. Prompt Response** : diggle/lyla, "You fainted straight into my arms."

 **17\. Prompt Response** : olicity, "YOU DID WHAT?"

 **18\. Prompt Response** : olicity, “Come over here and make me.” S4 speculation and some S3 spoiler-y type stuff

 **19\. Prompt Response** : olicity, “If you keep looking at me like that we won’t make it to a bed.” S3 speculation/spoilers included below. Some NSFW-adjacent implications.

 **20\. Prompt Response** : olicity, “You need to wake up because I can’t do this without you.”

 **21\. Prompt Response** : olicity, Stranded in an airport waiting for a delayed flight. "So, looks like we're going to be here a while. Do you mind if I...?" He gestured to the seat next to her, and Felicity could only stare blankly at him, mouth slightly agape. Because good lord, did someone order a Greek god?

 **22\. Prompt Response** : olicity, Basorexia – A strong urge to kiss someone. _S3 spoilers_

 **23: #OlicitySpotting** : Dirty Water. _S3 spoilers_

 **24\. Prompt Response** : olicity, "are you the bug guy?" AU

 **25\. Prompt Response** : olicity, wrong car AU: Both members of your OTP have similar cars and at night (with perhaps a few drinks in them) they look identical. Person A is trying to unlock Person B’s car and can’t understand why their keys aren’t working… while person B is trying to figure out why some stranger is trying to break into their car and maybe they should call the cops? 

**26\. Dialogue-Only Drabble** : Olicity and "I can't breathe"

 **27\. Dialogue-Only Drabble** : "I'm gonna be sick." - Thea and Felicity. (NSFW conversation)

 **28\. Dialogue-Only Drabble** : olicity, “You don’t have to stay.”

 **29\. Prompt Response** : olicity, I beat you at Mario Kart and now I’ve been banished to the couch for the night AU

 **30\. 4x01 Deleted Dialogue** : @marcguggenheim: I’ll give you a line that DIDN’T make it in. How’s that? Felicity (getting ready to type): I think you only wanted Oliver back because he comes with my fingers.

 **31\. MTV "ship of the year" Reblog Post** : Dialogue-only ficlets, including (1) who wears socks to bed? and (2) are you a cat person or a dog person?

 **32\. MTV "ship of the year" Reblog** : olicity, "He wins the argument with his mouth..."

 **33\. MTV "ship of the year" Reblog** : olicity, Texas and thunderstorms

 **34\. Prompt Response** : Waiting impatiently for something -- Felicity/Oliver, then Diggle

 **35\. Prompt Response** : olicity, on the edge of consciousness.

 **36\. MTV "ship of the year" Reblog** : olicity, paint chips

 **37\. MTV "ship of the year" Reblog** : olicity, first date (3x01) AU

 **38\. MTV "ship of the year" Reblog** : olicity, Character A proposes for the wrong reason prompt

 **39\. SDCC "domestic olicity" Nonsense** : “There are things that Oliver takes to around the house much quicker than Felicity.” - Stephen Amell

 **40\. SDCC "towel fight" Nonsense** : Stephen Amell's headcanon that Oliver and Felicity's first fight will be over towels.

 **41\. Dialogue-Only Drabble** : "I'm not cut out for this" Felicity and Thea

 **42\. Dialogue-Only Drabble** : Felicity (with Oliver as her willing audience) using the drive back to Starling to come up with some tech speak code to keep things 'nice' while in company

 **43\. Prompt Response** : olicity, vigilante/accidental vigilante seamstress AU

 **44\. Normal Doors Dialogue-Only Drabble:** olicity, FaceTiming with leather-and-fishnets!Felicity

 **45\. Normal Doors Drabble:** olicity, Felicity's wearing leather and fishnets

 **46\. Prompt Response:** olicity, pretending to hate each other AU

 **47\. Prompt Response** : olicity, "Did you try ripping it out of the wall first?"

 **48\. Prompt Response** : olicity, first grocery shipping trip

 **49\. Prompt Response** : olicity, this was not how I wanted to spend my morning (aka, lisp-fic)

 **50\. Prompt Response** : olicity, "i know that sounded like an innuendo but it wasn't"

 **51\. Prompt Response** : olicity, drunk, giggly Felicity

 **52\. Promo Pic Nonsense** : olicity, that promo pic of Felicity and Oliver

 **53\. Prompt Response** : olicity, meeting in a hospital e.r. AU

 **54\. Vaguely S4 Trailer-Inspired Fluff** : olicity, if these idiots are happy fluffy bunnies in love in the premiere, they will be happy fluffy engaged bunnies in the finale

 **55\. Souffle/S4 Trailer-Inspired Fluff** : olicity, thea POV, NO BUT OLIVER BAKED LITTLE SOUFFLES AND I'M DEAD.

 **56\. Prompt Response** : post-Tarzan/landmine rope swing Oliver catches a little bit of a clue.

 **57\. Prompt Response** : olicity, Ex's and Oh's

 **58\. Prompt Response** : olicity, “My sexual preference is often.” and “What a nice little sound, I think I’ll bite there again.”

 **59\. Prompt Response** : olicity, “Stop undressing me with your eyes and start using your teeth.”

 **60\. Prompt Response** : olicity, "Kiss the hell out of me. Please."

 **61\. Prompt Response** : olicity, “You’re so cute when you’re tired, you know.” 

**62\. Inspired By** : tumblr post about how Felicity will get away with everything by just being adorable.

**63\. 4x04-Related Ficlet**

**64\. Not Exactly a Prompt Response:** olicity, "Okay but imagine a drunk Felicity just confessing all the the sexual stuff she’s done with Oliver in front of the team and Oliver is like… "

 **65\. Prompt Response:** olicity + diggle/oliver BROTP, okay, but who is gonna write me a fic post 4x03 where oliver cooks for diggle chicken cordon bleu to celebrate rekindling their relationship...

 **66\. Prompt Response:** _major character death warning_ , I Imagine Death So Much It Feels More Like a Memory

 **67\. Smutty Ficlet** : olicity, their first night in that bed in the loft. ( ** _sexual content; please read responsibly_** )

 **68\. Random Dialogue-Only Ficlet** : olicity, mint chocolate chip cookies.

 **69\. Episode-Related Ficlet** : 4x08, olicity, Sometimes I process my rage through ficlets!

 **70\. Fic Amnesty** : AU 3x18 in which (a) Felicity is injured, and (b) Felicity is not with Ray.

 **71\. Fic Amnesty** : how Oliver ends up with the Bratva in 2011.

 **72\. Fic Amnesty** : olicity, dog-related meet-cute AU

 **73\. Fic Amnesty** : 2x23 - Diggle has a conversation with Oliver on that tiny little rust bucket of a plane

 **74\. Prompt Response** : olicity, Felicity + lingerie + Oliver + Unexpected!Dig - nonsense

 **75\. Prompt Response** : olicity, Felicity wants a code name and Oliver is a little bit of a prat about it

 **76\. Prompt Response** : olicity AU; bowling alley

 **77\. Prompt Response** : olicity, West Wing AU (though, actually, more of a crossover, really)

 **78\. Prompt Response** : olicity, disheveled & smug in the lair

 **79\. Episode-Related Ficlet** : 3x12, Diggle and Oliver talk riiiiiight after Oliver follows Felicity into the alley

 **80\. Prompt Response** : olicity, total glow-in-the-dark condom nonsense

 **81\. Prompt Response** : olicity, things you said with too many miles between us?

 **82\. Prompt Response** : olicity, things you said that i wish you hadn't?

 **83\. Prompt Response** : olicity, things you said after it was over, angst, S4 spoilers/speculation

 **84\. Speculation Fic** : olicity, 4x15-ish spoilers/speculation, angst

 **85\. Prompt Response** : olicity, things you said when you were drunk

 **86\. Prompt Response** : olicity, person A can read minds and person B is always thinking about kissing them

 **87\. Ficlet** : olicity, late-S3 AU silliness

 **88\. Prompt Response** : olicity(ish), 4x15-related, oliver's reaction to having nightmares again now that Felicity left him

 **89\. Smutty Prompt Response** : olicity, post-4x16, sex in the lair scene ( **sexual content; please read responsibly** )

 **90\. Dialogue-Only Prompt Response** : olicity, vague 4x17 spoilers, Felicity convincing Oliver to read Harry Potter out loud to her 

**91\. Prompt Response** : small 4x17 post-ep ficlet

 **92\. Prompt Response** : olicity, secretive brushing of fingertips against inner thighs in public spaces

 **93\. Dialogue-Only Prompt Response** : olicity, Oliver learns that Felicity faked it

 **94\. Prompt Response** : Season 4.5 + heat wave + UST

 **95\. Prompt-ish Response** : because of a dog-related tweet from @so-caffeinated earlier... S4.5 ficlet

 **96\. Prompt Response** : Season 5, olicity, giggles at the end of a long day

 **97\. MTV "ship of the year" Reblog** : olicity, organic touches, season 4.5

 **98\. MTV "ship of the year" Reblog** : olicity, Felicity brings Veronica the dog to the lair, season 4.5

 **99\. MTV "ship of the year" Reblog** : olicity, Panic! at the State Dinner

 **100\. MTV "ship of the year" Reblog** : olicity, random season 4.5 smut

 **101 MTV "ship of the year" Reblog** : olicity, QUEEN, SMOAK MARRY AT CITY HALL

 **102\. Prompt Response** : olicity, season 4.5, Oliver is a PITA to watch Olympics-level archery with

 **103\. First/Last Kiss** : Angsty Arrow ficlet (MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH)

 **104\. Prompt Response** : olicity, secret dating/Oliver has to parkour out of Felicity's apartment

 **105\. GIF Response** : olicity cat burglar AU

**106\. dialogue fic as a coping mechanism (9Nov2016)**

**107\. Ficlets-for-Votes** : arranged marriage AU

 **108\. Episode-Related AUish Take on 5x09** : Don’t read this if you don’t like angst. Or S5. I mean it.

 **109\. Episode-Related Missing Scene Related to 5x22** : Because those two idiots were stupid cute last night, and I couldn’t get over Oliver’s big dumb face, and thoughts of how these fake dinner plans were made.

 **110\. Episode-Related One-Shot Related to 5x23** : I find the cliffhanger uninteresting, so let’s skip right on past whatever the rescue effort is and just--

 **111\. Season 1.5-Related One Shot** : Pendrell’s Sporting Goods and Shooting Range

**112\. Figure skating AU**


	2. Challenge Response: Olicity Striptease

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> carogables said: Ooooh ok. Olicity, #5 (giving the other a strip tease), and I’m going to go a step further, and ask you to use the follow quote from tomorrow’s episode: “I’ve already seen you shirtless. You are shirtless all the time.” Please & thank you! _Written in October, apparently._

“Please, Oliver, could you just…” Felicity stops, sighs, and turns toward the living room. She feels bad, because he’s being sweet, actually, and it’s not helping. And he’s confused. Because she is -- as he likes to remind her -- a relentlessly optimistic person. _Almost_ all the time, except for days like this when she’s tired and she snaps at someone for no reason, and then she feels bad and gets mad at herself, and it just spirals into general… BLERGHiness.

She hears the rustle of his jacket, the clank of his keys and the thunk of his wallet hitting the kitchen island, and she waits for the inevitable-- “Felicity?”

_He’s just trying to help_ , she tells herself. _Don’t take it out on him_.

She shrugs out of her cardigan, catching it on one wrist before draping it over the arm of the couch. She can feel him behind her, watching. Inhaling slowly, she turns and gives him a small, sad smile. “I’m sorry. I’m just going to be a grumpus tonight.”

Despite the clear concern on his face, his lips quirk as he repeats, “Grumpus?”

Felicity fights the answering smile that’s trying to surface. “Yes. Do rich people not know what grumpus means?” 

Oliver takes a few steps closer, watching her as she drops onto the couch with a grumbly noise. “Anything I can do to cheer you up?”

He’s probably not _trying_ to be suggestive. Felicity knows he _knows_ he’s attractive. OBVIOUSLY. But as much as he is -- to her -- walking sexual catnip (if, you know, sexual catnip were an actual thing and not an oddly disturbing metaphor), he’s doesn’t actually try to solve all of her problems with sex. Just, you know, most of them.

Not that she’s complaining. It’s just… her mood is her mood, and once in a blue moon, she just wants to sit and glower at things irrationally. “I’m fine,” she says, meeting his gaze and letting him see the truth of her statement. She _is_ fine. She’ll be fine tomorrow. “Really.”

Oliver stares at her for a long moment, then nods and retreats to the kitchen. 

Felicity lets her breath out in a low groan, sinking further into the cushions. She loves the hell out of Oliver, she does. It’s just that on days like this, days when she’s _off kilter_ , she wishes he didn’t have this burning need to fix everything for her. Which, God, sounds terrible. She’s a terrible girlfriend -- annoyed that her boyfriend is _just so thoughtful and caring_? 

Before she can get up to go talk to him, to apologize, Oliver reappears, with a small grin and a glass of her fifth favorite cabernet (her first through fourth favorites are way too expensive for mopey-drinking). “This should help,” he says, and hands her the glass.

Felicity can’t keep the smile under wraps this time. “It definitely does help,” she agrees, without having taken a sip. It’s the gesture more than the actual wine. Though, seriously -- it’s a very good wine.

He nods slowly, reaching up to undo the top two buttons of his no-longer-quite-as-crisp white dress shirt. “Know what else would help?”

Okay, this time he _is_ being suggestive. Felicity quirks an eyebrow. “Endorphins?” she suggests dryly. Funny how Oliver just being Oliver can make her feel lighter.

His grin is positively dirty as he nods, once, and then stands there, unbuttoning the rest of his shirt without looking away from her.

She presses her lips together to keep from smiling. “Are you stripping for me?”

He huffs a laugh. One graceful shrug of his shoulders and the shirt drops to the floor behind him. And it _is_ funny, a little bit, but it’s also _incredibly_ hot. Felicity takes a long sip of her wine as Oliver puts his hands on his hips and lifts his eyebrows. “Do you want me to strip for you?”

She manages not to choke on her wine, and _then_ suppresses her instinctual fist pump for the not-choking. Instead, she gives him an exaggerated shrug, lifting her palms and attempting her best unimpressed voice. “Gonna have to put a little more effort into it if you want to impress me.”

Oliver actually looks offended at that. “Excuse me?”

And Felicity is laughing, one hand pressed to her thigh as she leans forward a little in her mirth. Because-- the look on his face-- She folds in half, her forehead on her knees, and giggles.

When she straightens, Oliver has his arms crossed. She nearly loses it again, but holds her free hand up as she takes a sip of her wine. Able to keep her face _mostly_ straight, she says, “I mean, that’s nice and all, but I’ve already seen you shirtless. You are shirtless _all_ the time. Hell,” she adds, warming to her subject, “Diggle has seen you shirtless more than--”

“Okay,” Oliver interrupts, reaching her in two long strides and tugging her to her feet. He leans in, holding her face still, and kisses her. Aggressively, the way she likes. And, yeah, maybe a healthy hit of endorphins would be okay. 

Felicity loops one arm around his waist, keeping the other close to her body so she can cradle the wine glass against his rib cage, which makes him hiss into her mouth. She grins and nips at his lips.

And then he’s moving again, pushing her back down onto the couch, which she is _all for_ , except for the wine, which she doesn’t want to spill because -- what a waste of good wine. Also, she hates spot cleaning rugs. And her _slight_ distraction around the wine and the possible spilling of it is the only reason she misses the part where he’s pulling back and leaving her there until he’s already out of reach. 

“Hey!” she protests, her non-wine-glass-holding hand outstretched in his direction. Because she was perfectly okay with wallowing and weird, disassociated sadness until he got all suggestive-like, but now she wants _at least_ two endorphin surges. “Where are you going?”

She blames the buzz of lust he’d already kindled for how long it takes her to put everything together.

Oliver stands four feet away from her, a smirk on his face and his eyes on hers, and reaches for his belt. “You wanted me to impress you.” 

Felicity groans aloud as he slowly, slowly unbuckles his belt. He’s-- he’s actually stripping for her. Like, _for real_. Felicity swallows hard. 

Oliver hesitates, and he’s all smug sex on a stick, and she can feel the flush along her skin and it’s not from the wine. He pulls one end of the belt, and it moves an inch, then stops. “Didn’t you?”

Felicity white knuckles her wine glass and nods. “God, yes.”

-30-


	3. Challenge Response: Olicity; turning the other off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dansunedisco said: For the semi-NSFW meme... Felicity/Oliver, #13! ;) turning the other off. _Written in October, 2014_.

Okay, so Felicity was _definitely_ beginning to second-guess the wisdom of giving him painkillers.

Because, sure, getting Oliver to agree to take painkillers at all was quite a feat, and she was rightfully proud of herself. He was stubborn as an ox or a mule or a donkey, or possibly all three put together, but on occasion her impeccable logic was too much for him to resist. Particularly when he was anticipating excruciating pain. So. Yay for her.

But Dig had really given him a lot before addressing Oliver’s dislocated shoulder (which -- ugh, that was a horrible noise), and Oliver was… well, he was lying on the medical table, shirtless (of course) and really, really high.

“F’liss’ty,” he said. Garbled, really. He said her name so thoughtfully and so weightily most times that the uncharacteristic sing-song made her grin. When she turned to him, his good arm was reaching for her, his other arm strapped securely to his chest. He was drugged enough that it apparently didn’t occur to him to get off the medical table -- he just lay there, smiling goofily at her, his face soft and his eyes blinking slowly. “C’mere.”

“Diggle’s going to be back really soon, Oliver,” she said, even as she moved to stand beside him, one hand resting on his uninjured shoulder. “How’s the pain?”

“‘S’fine,” he answered. It took him two tries, but his free hand landed on her hip. Even drugged to the gills, his movements were graceful. If imprecise. “Why’re you so far ‘way?”

She grinned down at him. “I’m right next to you.” His hand exerted pressure, trying to pull her closer. “Oliver, there’s a table where you’re trying to put me.”

And then the daft man actually tried to scoot over. She lunged forward, hooking a hand around his waist to hold him still so he didn’t scoot right off the other side. “Oliver!”

“There’s plenty of room,” he slurred, letting go of her hip so he could pat the sliver of metal table beside him. “Hop on.”

“Watch out for hop ons,” she muttered, her smile irrepressible once she saw the puzzled furrow of his brow as he gazed up at her.

“Hmm?”

“You need to rest,” she said, instead of explaining. He never followed her pop culture references even when he wasn’t higher than a kite. She let go of his waist, her fingers trailing softly up the bicep of his injured arm. Felicity leaned closer and cupped his jaw, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “Rest,” she repeated.

But his free hand was back on her hip, then sliding down to cup her ass while he held her in place. Apparently the drugs made him slur and affected his hand-eye coordination, but they didn’t make a dent in his strength. He grinned up at her, lifting his eyebrows in what he probably thought was an alluring way. But since he was moving at, like, half speed at the moment, he just looked silly. “Don’t wanna rest,” he protested, squeezing her ass. “C’mere.”

“Oliver--”

“Want you,” he said, and, okay, he was drugged but he was still hot and she was only human. She leaned in and kissed him again, and properly this time. She braced her hand against the table to keep her weight off of his injured arm, lifting up on tiptoes when their kiss, predictably, got a little out of control.

He was sloppy and enthusiastic, groaning into her mouth with abandon, and she felt weirdly powerful and way too turned on for the situation. But -- the evidence of how much he wanted her, the desperation of his kiss when his usual rigid control was gone? Well, how was she supposed to react to that? Other than--

“Oh, for the love of God,” Diggle said.

Felicity squeaked and pushed upright, lifting her hand from the waistband of Oliver’s sweatpants as if it were electrified. “Dig!”

Oliver was smirking up at her, breathing a little hard, and Felicity tried to turn away, but his arm was still heavy around her waist. 

“I was gone for fifteen minutes,” Diggle said, clearly exasperated with them both. “And he’s totally out of it, Felicity.”

“Hey!” she defended, squeezing Oliver’s bicep until he loosened his grip. His hand trailed along her back as she turned, rubbing against her ribcage as she faced Diggle. “I was just…” She blinked, trying for anything remotely plausible. “Yeah, okay, sorry.” Because, yeah, she obviously wasn’t providing medical care.

“M’not,” Oliver muttered, the hand on her side slowly sliding down towards her hip. 

Felicity jumped, moving swiftly out of his reach. “Oliver, Dig’s here,” she admonished.

Diggle was watching her with bemusement, but when he glanced to Oliver, he grimaced and turned away. “Oh, come on, man.”

“What?” Felicity asked, turning to face Oliver, who-- Oh. Those sweatpants really didn’t hide anything. She flushed crimson, and carefully kept her back to Dig, while remaining just out of Oliver’s reach. She tried to think of something to help, something to turn him off. As quickly as possible. “Dead puppies!” she all-but yelled.

Behind her, Diggle snorted.

Oliver blinked slowly, then wrinkled his nose. “Huh?” 

“Baseball!” she added. “I mean, bad baseball. Like… base-running errors!” Because he really hated that. Almost as much as too-many-men-on-the-ice in hockey.

Diggle was laughing outright by that point, while Oliver just stared at her, confused, his uninjured hand slowly retreating to drop by his side on the table. “F’lissity?”

“My grandmother’s dentures!” she chirped, grinning at him now. He was puzzled, but also clearly turned off, since the obvious bulge in his sweatpants had already started to recede. “Drinking so much you throw up! Geriatric porn! Oh, well, maybe let’s skip that last one,” she decided. “I mean, people aren’t really responsible for their turn-ons, and maybe you like it when cute little old people still have healthy sexual--”

“Felicity!” Diggle interrupted, “please stop talking.”

She snapped her jaw shut, then turned back to Oliver, whose eyes were slipping closed now. “Rest,” she told him, her voice low and soothing. “Problem solved, Dig,” she announced.

He had his arms crossed over his chest when she faced him. “Yeah,” Dig said, “we’re going to have to talk about appropriate times and places.”

“No!” she said, shaking her head emphatically. “No, we’re not. We’re good. _Allllllll_ good. I promise.”

“Felicity.”

He looked so grumpy that she took a step backwards, her lower back coming into contact with the medical table. Felicity held her hands up. “One-time thing, Dig. I promise.”

He held her gaze for a long moment, then dipped his chin once. “Good.”

She knew he’d have an abrupt conversation with Oliver once he was sober, but at least that embarrassing situation was over. She exhaled, slumping a little against the medical table in relief.

Oliver’s hand snaked around her waist, his thumb pressing little circles into her hipbone. 

“Oh, come on!” she protested. Without very much conviction.

-30-


	4. Post-Ep Drabble for the Flashover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It takes a surprisingly long time for Diggle to really understand what’s happening one hotel room over from his._

It takes a surprisingly long time for Diggle to really understand what’s happening one hotel room over from his.

Because he’s a little preoccupied with things like _crazy-ass metahumans_ who can run ridiculously fast. It’s inhuman. Diggle shudders a bit. He liked Barry a lot more when he was just some eager puppy with a crush on Felicity. Not this... weird... fast-running guy in a dumb-looking suit.

Diggle realizes that there’s not a whole lot of room for him to trash talk the suit, considering Oliver’s rather melodramatic need to dress up in green leather, but there’s a reason Diggle has refused Oliver’s suggestions to get himself some sort of superhero getup. Oliver certainly isn’t a superhero -- most days he’s barely a hero, just a guy with a big heart and an unstable moral code trying to make things better. Nothing _super_ about it.

Because superheros aren’t real.

At least they _shouldn’t_ be, and Diggle isn’t really comfortable with evidence to the contrary.

So maybe that’s why he doesn’t really register the sound of two familiar voices in Felicity’s room. Later, he’ll realize they were talking, and then they weren’t, and _then_ there was a loud crash that finally caught Diggle’s attention.

Startled, he half rolls, half leaps off the bed, swiping his gun off the nightstand as he rises. Oliver had insisted that Felicity take the room in the middle, and now that Diggle’s attention isn’t totally captivated by crazy-ass shit, he hears what sounds like Oliver’s voice in her room. They’re not yelling, which is good, but Diggle is pretty concerned about whatever it was that made that loud noise. 

He’s two steps from the door when it all finally comes together.

No pun intended.

Because that is definitely _not_ a moan of distress, and _goddamnit_ , Felicity and Oliver are having sex ten feet and one not-at-all soundproof wall away from him.

Eyes wide, Diggle backs toward the bed, trying to process this information. That he really _really_ didn’t need. Because now he’s going to hear Oliver _grunting_ like that in his nightmares, and God, he needs to get out of this room. 

“Oliver!” Felicity gasps, and it’s as crystal clear as if she were standing right next to him.

Diggle grabs his wallet, talking aloud to try to drown out his two close friends and their _sex_ noises. Because he’s pretty sure Felicity is telling Oliver just how she likes it, and that is _not_ something Diggle can know. “No, no, no, wallet, keys -- wait, room key, this isn’t happening.”

Oliver growls something that sounds like Felicity’s name, and what Diggle is horrified to realize is something about Oliver’s keen appreciation for her ass. Then they both laugh these low, breathy laughs, and Diggle feels ill.

“No, no, no!” Diggle chants. And fuck the jacket, he’ll happily get rained on if he can just stop hearing--

“Harder!” Felicity orders in her loud voice.

Diggle actually yelps in a completely unmanly manner and then runs out the door. And, okay, for just that moment, he thinks maybe it would be useful to have Barry’s crazy-ass superspeed. Because there are certain things you can never unhear, and one of them is hearing your friends having enthusiastic sex.

Diggle spends two hours at a nearby diner before venturing back, and it takes him to long to fall asleep. Predictably, he’s awoken by the sound of a headboard rhythmically banging against a wall, and he is up and in the shower before he can overhear anything else. 

When he is dressed, he picks up his phone and stares at it for a moment. He’s pretty sure Oliver is going to try to get Diggle to join them for a Team Arrow breakfast, and he’ll be damned if he’ll sit there and watch them try to be subtle. He knows it’ll be all blushes and smiles from Felicity, and weird cheerfulness from Oliver, and he just can’t deal with that right now.

Instead, he raises his voice a little and says, “Do me a favor: take your morning after selves out for coffee or something so I can get some damn sleep.”

He _definitely_ hears Felicity’s embarrassed “eeep” through the wall.

-30-


	5. Episode Speculation Drabble for "Suicidal Tendencies"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The wedding reception is well underway, and Felicity is feeling no pain._ Sparked by Oliver's "joke" about a victory dance in "The Offer" and then [this GIFset on tumblr](http://machawicket.tumblr.com/post/114049194787/i-dont-dance-okayoliver-sure-the-wedding).

The wedding reception is well underway, and Felicity is feeling no pain. She’s a little tipsy and a lot giddy — so happy for John and Lyla, and so relieved that they’ve managed to take a day off from the chaos and the darkness to celebrate this.

Ray is deep in conversation with Roy, of all people, and Felicity does not want to talk about crime-fighting suits right now. She wants to dance, but doesn’t really see any good options for a partner. Roy and Ray are otherwise occupied. Diggle is dancing with Lyla, holding Sara in one of his giant arms, and the sight is enough to make her eyes sting with happy tears.

“Having a good time?”

She turns to find Oliver beside her, smiling warmly at her in that way he has that leaves her breathless. “The best,” she answers. And then she tilts her head, evaluating him. Because _he_ could be her partner.

 _Dance_ partner.

Oliver is immediately wary. “What?” he asks, and she’s pretty sure he’s about to take a half-step back, so so touches his forearm with her fingertips. It’s enough to hold him in place.

“Dance with me,” she says, and it’s more a demand than a request, though her voice turns up at the very end, a little breathy with uncertainty. He opens and closes his mouth, unable to come up with a response, and she drops her hand away, turning to hide her disappointment. “Right. You don’t dance.” 

Oliver catches her hand in his, arresting her retreat. “I’ll dance with you,” he says, and she understands what it means. What _he_ means.

Because she hasn’t missed the shift in the way he looks at her. She’s definitely noticed the longing, the desire that he is no longer bothering to hide. And the hurt she sees when he looks at her and Ray — she feels that deeply. She knows what Oliver’s thinking, what he wants.   
She’s here with another man, and this is playing with fire, but she can’t do anything but smile up at him and nod. “Okay.”

And as Oliver leads her onto the dance floor, then tugs her closer, she catches the knowing look on Dig’s face. But she’s an adult, so she doesn’t stick her tongue out at him the way she wants to. Instead, she moves closer to Oliver, close enough to feel the heat of his body, but maintaining a respectable, platonic distance. 

She slides her free hand up his bicep to rest on his shoulder. 

Innocently.

Just like his hand is curled innocently around her waist. 

Oliver holds her other hand gently in his, squeezing softly to get her attention. When she looks up at him, he’s so, so close to her, and they’re just barely swaying to the music. He gives her just the hint of a smile. “I’m a terrible dancer.”

She can’t stop the way she smiles back at him. She can’t stop the words from tumbling out of her mouth. “That’s okay. Just follow my lead.”

-30-


	6. Prompt Response: OLICITY, two miserable people meeting at a wedding au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> youguysimserious asked: 22. OLICITY.
> 
> NOTE: thelockpickingvictorian also requested Olicity/22, so this is for you, too.:)

Felicity is well into her cups by the time the cocktail hour is over at Tommy and Laurel’s wedding.

She is confident that she deserves to take full advantage of the open bar, after deciding to show up against her better judgment. She should _not_ be here. 

Not that she was embarrassed or anything -- after all, a tipsy one-night stand between two consenting (and _supposedly_ unattached) adults is nothing to be ashamed of -- but she did feel a little strange attending the wedding of the man who’d kind of rocked her world a little bit? 

At the very least it made congratulating the bride a _little_ awkward, but thankfully, Felicity had managed to reign in her typical babbling, feeling Tommy’s worried gaze on her the entire time she spoke to Laurel.

So, all of like fifteen seconds.

Because Felicity didn’t know Laurel, but she _was_ good friends with Laurel’s sister, Sara. She was actually, technically Sara’s date. Because Sara and her girlfriend broke up, like, two weeks ago, and Sara was _not_ emotionally prepared to go to her sister’s wedding single. Felicity had happily agreed -- Sara _was_ pretty hot, after all, and they’d messed around a few times. 

But as soon as Tommy and Laurel were pronounced husband and wife (and _not_ , Felicity noted appreciatively, _man_ and wife), Sara had a lot of family-related obligations to take care of -- pictures and all of that wedding stuff. So Felicity has had plenty of time to get good and tipsy at the bar. Where she is now. Tipsy. And kind of giggling a little. Because she’s at the wedding of her one-time one night stand as the date of his now-sister-in-law, and what _even_ is her life?

When she hears a low chuckle beside her, she straightens up and really _really_ hopes she didn’t say any of that out loud. And says, “I hope I didn’t say any of that out loud.” Because, yeah, she’s _in her cups_ , okay?

She turns reluctantly, not super-into the idea of defending her presence to someone who finds the tortured backstory amusing.

Except that the man leaning against the bar, like, a foot away from her has a genuinely amused smirk going on that is, yeah, strangely attractive? And _holy shit_ , that’s Oliver Queen. Possibly the only person here with a more fucked up relationship to the wedding party.

And then Oliver Queen is smiling at her, like a wide real full-on sunbeam from the skies kind of smile. He holds out a hand for her to shake. “Oliver Queen,” he says, his tone dry, “best man, and also ex-boyfriend of the bride, who I cheated on with her sister.”

They are *terrible* people, sitting here swapping “I slept with this member of the wedding party” stories. But also? He slept with Sara, and she’s made out with Sara, and that’s just a really strange conversation starter. 

But Felicity is grinning at him, and her hand fits very nicely in his when she responds, “Felicity Smoak, just regular guest, but I slept with Tommy when I moved to Starling, and also I’m here with Sara. So!”

Oliver’s bright smile dims just a bit. “I thought Sara’s girlfriend was--?”

“Oh, no, yeah, I’m not her _girlfriend_ ,” Felicity explains quickly. And then rushes on, “I mean, she’s gorgeous and a really good kisser? But we’re actually friends. You’re thinking of Nyssa. She and Nyssa broke up.” 

Oliver’s eyebrows jump up. “So you and Sara are friends who kiss?”

Felicity would probably be flushing without the fortification of the wine. Instead, she just shrugs. “I mean, occasionally, sure. But I’m not her girlfriend. I mean, we’re not _dating_.” And why is she trying to clarify her total lack of a significant other to the once and future playboy king of Starling? 

His eyes are sparkling as he grins at her. “Once and future playboy king?” he repeats.

Felicity drops her head onto her forearms, slumping against the bar. “Why do I even say words?” And then she pushes herself upright, fixing him with a glare. “And aren’t _you_ and Sara also friends who kiss?”

“Once upon a time,” he agrees, with an arched eyebrow that is, like, stupidly sexy. “But these days we’re friends.”

“Who don’t kiss,” Felicity surmises with a nod. She waves her hand in the space between them. “There is a lot of complicated sexual history here.”

Oliver’s grin is so, so dirty when he shoots back, “Particularly for two people who have never had sex with each other.”

And Felicity understands on, like, a spiritual level, how Oliver Queen got hundreds of super-willing women into his bed. Goddamn. “Mmmm,” is all she can manage in response.

“Can I get you another drink?” Oliver asks, laughter still very clear in his voice.

“I should maybe slow down,” Felicity admits. “I was _not_ really enjoying standing awkwardly around by myself, so I hit the open bar *hard*.”

Oliver nods. “I’ve been at the mandatory photo session. You want a water while I try to catch up?”

Felicity feels a warmth in her chest that has nothing to do with all the Cabernet Sauvignon she knocked back, and everything to do with the stupidly attractive man beside her. And when did he move all close to her, anyway, she wonders, having to tilt her head back a little to meet his gaze. Then she grins at him. “By all means.” She can _hear_ the unrepentantly flirty tone in her voice, but can’t seem to make herself quit it.

Oliver flags down the bartender, and then there’s a tall glass of water with a thin red straw in front of her. She takes a few sips while Oliver drains a Scotch and orders another. She holds the straw between her lips and watches him over the rim of her glass. 

He catches her eye and shifts, leaning one elbow against the bar just beside her bar stool. “So, Felicity, you’re not dating Sara.”

“Nope,” she answers, then chases the straw around a little with her tongue, because -- _in her cups_. She doesn’t miss the way Oliver’s gaze gets all hot and focused on her mouth. Felicity swallows hard. “Free agent,” she says. Then she frowns. “I mean, I am here with Sara, so it would be _rude_ to--”

But then Oliver is kissing her, and it’s unexpected, but also fucking amazing? Felicity abandons her water glass on the bar and loops an arm around his neck, pulling him closer. His lips are insistent and confident and also soft, and his stubble is doing really itchy but really great things for her? 

Somehow, she’s leaned into him, and her breasts are pressed flat against his -- hello -- like, _super_ firm chest and she’s more turned on than she should be for the situation. For making out with a renowned playboy in public. But, damn, it’s good. 

It’s _really_ good. Like, dizzyingly good. Mind-bendingly good. And from the way his fingers are digging into her hips, she thinks maybe it’s not just her feeling this way.

Way too soon, he’s breaking away from her and standing up straight, his breath a little unsteady as he looks down at her with a dark intensity. 

“Wow,” she says, and then blushes. Because -- get a _grip_ , Felicity.

But Oliver seems charmed -- his arms are still loosely around her waist, his thumb rubbing circles on her spine. And he reaches for his new Scotch without looking away from her. Just before he brings the glass to his lips, he says, “I was having a pretty shitty time at this wedding.”

Felicity’s attention is drawn to the way his throat works as he drains the glass. She really, _really_ wants to lean forward and-- 

“Felicity.”

She jerks her gaze back to his. “Huh?”

“We have to stay for dinner. We can’t leave yet,” Oliver tells her, and he sounds honestly regretful.

Felicity nods, ignoring the wave of disappointment she feels. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” She turns away, taking a long pull of water through the straw. When she straightens, she reaches up and uses the edge of her thumb to brush away a droplet of water on her lip.

“Jesus,” Oliver whispers in her ear. “You have to stop that if you expect me to make it through dinner before we leave.”

Belatedly, Felicity hears the _we_ in that sentence. “Oh.”

He grins at her. “Yeah. That okay?”

Felicity watches him carefully. Because these kinds of things don’t happen to her very often. “You said _we_. That _we_ would leave.”

He nods. “I did.”

“You want to go home with me.” Why is she still talking? Why are these words coming out of her mouth? Because _obviously_ that’s what he means, and playing Twenty Questions of Do You Want to Fuck Me, is a great way to make him reevaluate his life choices.

But Oliver leans so, so close, until she can smell the vaguely pine-y scene of his aftershave. So close that she can feel his hot breath against her lips when he answers. “Badly. I want _badly_ to go home with you, Felicity.”

She wants to point out that they just met, and that they’re both here under very complicated circumstances that may lead to poor decision-making. But more than that? Like _way_ more? 

She wants Oliver naked and in her bed. Like, as soon as possible. 

He seems a little startled when she drops from the barstool onto her feet and looks around. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

“When the hell is dinner?” she demands.

And Oliver is laughing and pulling her into his side. “I thought this wedding was gonna suck,” he says into her hair, “but you’ve turned that around.”

-30-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Wrote a smutty follow-on to this, and posted this plus the new stuff as an independent work: [Got to Give It Up](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3783862/chapters/8416207).


	7. Prompt Response: Olicity, cop/person getting a speeding ticket au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: of course I choose the one AU I know NOTHING about, I thought random would be fun clearly not :/ If I don't even watch doctor who, 38 :) cause I wanna see who will be the flirt to get OUT of the speeding ticket

Getting busted back to patrolman is just the fucking worst.

Oliver hates every second of being trapped in the stiff, polyester patrolman’s uniform. Hates driving the fucking black & white around in endless goddamn circles looking for, like, jaywalkers and people rolling through stop signs. Like that does a goddamn thing for actual public safety.

Meanwhile, Sergeant Diggle just gives him that flat, disappointed glare whenever Oliver tries to broach the subject of being promoted back to Detective. 

He’s pretty sure he’ll go fucking crazy if he has to write speeding tickets for the rest of his goddamn life. Most days, he sits in his patrol car and drinks a large coffee as slowly as possible while glaring at the cars that visibly brake as soon as they see him. 

So fucking subtle.

But then there’s a red Mini Cooper blowing through a yellow light. He’d normally let that go, but it’s the 29th, and no matter how much the SCPD denies it to the press, they _do_ have monthly quotas. Plus, he’s already finished his mid-morning coffee. So Oliver mutters “motherfucking quotas,” and flips on the cherry light, pulling into traffic and driving aggressively fast around the cautious drivers who just _stop_ where they are instead of actually pulling out of the damn way.

Fucking idiots.

It doesn’t take long to catch up to the red Mini. But to Oliver’s surprise, he basically drives into the bumper, typing the license plate in one-handed and holding his position just inches behind the car, and the driver... doesn’t pull over. 

He’s pretty sure it’s a she -- she’s dancing around in her seat, and it looks like a ponytail swinging to the beat of _whatever_ she has on that’s distracting her so much she doesn’t notice a freaking cop pulling her over.

Oliver shakes his head and flips the siren on for a brief, shrieking moment.

He can see exactly when she realizes what’s happening -- her dancing stops, she sits up weirdly tall in her seat, and the Mini swerves to the side of the road so quickly that the front right tire ends up on the curb.

Oliver tucks his patrol car right in behind her and rolls his eyes. This should be fun. 

The computer spits out her information -- Felicity Smoak, 23, resident of Forest Glen, a transitional neighborhood just outside the Glades. No priors, no outstanding anything.

With a sigh, Oliver opens his door and steps out into the humid summer air, grimacing at the immediate trickle of sweat tickling down his back. He keeps a hand on the butt of his gun out of habit, evaluating the tiny car as he strolls up to the driver’s side window.

She’s much prettier than her license picture would suggest -- lively blue eyes, bright fuchsia lips, and _dimples_ when she smiles. Which she’s doing. For some reason. 

“Officer, hi! I’m so sorry -- was I speeding? Because I’m usually pretty good at staying in that five-miles-over sweet spot. You know, where you stay at 35 in a 30 and the cops just go on about their business because they’re looking for people who are _really_ speeding?” Her smile fades and she looks a little concerned. “Although, it’s occurring to me that 35 in a 30 is technically speeding, so maybe I shouldn’t talk to you without my lawyer present, since I’m accidentally confessing to crimes?”

Oliver’s eyebrows jump up, but he can’t really figure out how to answer her, and as it turns out, she’s not done talking.

“I mean,” she continues, waving a hand in between herself and the steering wheel, “maybe _crime_ is overstating it? These are city ordinances, right? Speed limits? So maybe a misdemeanor? It’s not like I’m admitting to grand theft auto.”

Oliver clears his throat to cover the laugh threatening to escape. “Miss--”

“Not,” she interrupts, her tone urgent, “that I stole this car. I don’t mean that at all. It’s mine, I swear. Well, it’s _leased_ , I don’t, like, _own_ it outright, but--”

“Miss Smoak,” Oliver tries again, and he’s pretty sure he’s smiling down at her. “You weren’t speeding.”

“Oh.” She blinks, pursing her lips in a way that gets his mind going in a thoroughly inappropriate direction. “Well, in that case, can we just pretend I didn’t say all that stuff about the five mile per hour cushion and stealing cars? I promise, I’m a big fan of rules! I wait my turn, I don’t push past people to get on the subway when the doors are about to close, and I certainly don’t break the law.” She stops, her eyes going wide, and Oliver has the worst feeling she’s about to confess to something else.

“Miss Smoak,” he says, “you went through a yellow light.”

She seems thoroughly nonplussed. “Okay.”

“Yes, so--”

She tilts her head to the side, her dangling silver earrings dancing with the movement. “Yellow isn’t red.”

Oliver presses his lips together so he won’t smile at her. “I’m aware of that.”

“But I mean, yellow means caution, so I _cautiously_ proceeded through the intersection.”

“You sped up,” Oliver countered, and why did this argument with a random driver feel so much like flirting?

“I sped up _cautiously_ ,” she counters.

“I’m not sure that’s even possible,” he argues.

“Sure it is,” she insists, laying her elbow along the top of the car door. “Isn’t that the whole theory behind defensive driving?”

He’s grinning now. “Running yellow lights?”

“No,” she says, and she’s grinning back at him, “maintaining excellent control of your car no matter the situation.”

“And you, Miss Smoak, are a trained defensive driver?” he prods, already knowing the answer from the impish shrug she gives him.

“Well, I mean, I like to _think_ I am. I did go to college in Boston.” Her eyes dance behind her glasses as she holds his gaze. “I think handling Storrow Drive without any accidents qualifies me as an _excellent_ defensive driver, yes.”

Oliver can’t help the chuckle that escapes him. “Okay.” 

She beams up at him, and Oliver almost needs to take a step back. “So you’re not going to give me a ticket?” she asks.

“For demonstrating your hard-won defensive driving skills?” he parries. 

She grins. “Good then. Thank you, Officer… uh.”

Oliver taps the nameplate on his chest. “Queen,” he says. “Oliver Queen, out of the 14th precinct, at your service.” He didn’t mean for that to sound quite so suggestive, but okay.

She nods slowly. “Nice to meet you, Officer Queen.”

Oliver wants to ask for her number, or ask her to coffee, or ask her _anything_ that will keep their interaction going. But he is particularly sensitive to the idea of overstepping his authority. So he just holds her gaze a moment longer. “You, too, Miss Smoak.”

“Felicity,” she corrects.

“You, too, Felicity,” he says, and her tastes amazing on his tongue. “Remember,” he adds, “I’m at the 14th.” She lifts her eyebrows in question, and he might actually be blushing when he says, “If you need to look me up.” Her smile widens, but he takes a step back. “You have a nice day, Felicity.”

She twists a little in her seat to watch his retreat. “You, too, Officer.”

It’s completely inappropriate, and Diggle would have his ass, but Oliver turns back for just a moment. “Oliver,” he corrects with a grin. “Drive safe, Felicity.”

-30-


	8. olicity, boss/intern AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> reynasavilaramirezarellano said: Olicity 49 (boss/intern au). Also got this request from dianabayer and the anon who wanted all fifty AU scenarios. Heeee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: this features Ollie, not Oliver.

Felicity fought the urge to, like, tilt her head sideways and jump up and down as if she had water clogging her ears, because -- _what_?

“What?” she said aloud, then cringed, because that was probably the wrong tone to take with her superior. She made a momentary scrunchy face of regret, then pasted on her placid, still-kind-of-the-new-kid-in-the-IT-department expression. “I’m sorry, I meant…” she paused, because, yeah, she still just basically meant _WHAT?_ But she shook her head a little and said, “But I don’t need an intern.”

Gary, her incompetent supervisor, simply shrugged. “Shit rolls downhill.”

“Okay, first of all, _gross_ ,” she answered. “Secondly, what am I supposed to do with an intern?”

“Nothing,” Gary answered. “But you’ll figure that out eventually.”

Puzzled, Felicity just shook her head mutely as Gerry walked away. Because, seriously, _what_? 

But it was Friday and it was nearly 3 p.m., so Felicity pushed the whole intern debacle thing out of her mind, finished up her work week, and went home for a blissful weekend of Netflix and red wine and take out from the really great Korean place down the street. Which is why she arrived at QC Monday morning at 8:30 sharp, having completely forgotten about her intern. 

It all came back in vivid, horrifying detail when she reached the IT department and stopped short in front of her cubicle, blinking a few times as if that could erase the sight that awaited. But, nope, there was still a large, male figure slumped over her workspace, face cradled in his arms, basically half-lying on _her_ desk. 

And apparently _asleep_.

Literally asleep on the job on his first day. Great. Just awesome.

Felicity glared at him for a minute, disappointed that the power of her irritation didn’t magically awaken him. She crossed her arms, torn between poking this moron with the sharp end of a pencil, and carefully waking up her new intern, _the CEO’s ne’er do well son_. Who was apparently _thisclose_ to flunking out of college. Again. For like at _least_ the third time. And this internship -- _at daddy’s company_ \-- was supposed to save his ass somehow. Ugh. 

How any of this ended up being _her_ problem, Felicity would never know. Who assigned interns to entry-level worker bees in the IT department?

Deciding she didn’t have time for this, she cleared her throat. “Oliver Queen?” she asked. Loudly.

He flailed himself awake, and she saw it too late to stop the resulting disaster -- his right arm knocked over the Starbucks cup that was, yup, _full_ of coffee. As she watched, helpless, the liquid became a little brown tsunami of destruction as it shorted out her wireless keyboard and cascaded through the seam in the desk to land atop the high-powered tower beneath. She actually _heard_ the dying sizzle of Isadora, her beloved machine. 

Meanwhile, Oliver Queen, the jackass intern, sat up and blinked owlishly at her, before looking down at the mess he’d made. “Oh,” he said.

Jerked from her stunned silence, Felicity felt her blood pressure spike. “Oh?” she repeated. “ _Oh_!?”

His brow furrowed as he looked at her a little warily. “Sorry?”

Felicity’s hands were on her hips before she knew what happened. “Are you _asking_ whether you should be sorry for viciously slaughtering my customized computer? The tower that I upgraded over the course of three weeks to my very specific, very complex specifications? The tower that is actually irreplaceable?”

Oliver was apparently awake enough to find that amusing, because he smirked at her and said, “Viciously slaughtering?”

She had the strongest urge to grab him by the really floppy bangs he had going on -- and, seriously, he needed a haircut; and to fire whoever let him style it _like that_ \-- and drag him out of her office. Because-- “You just spilled your coffee everywhere!”

He shrugged a little carelessly. “It’s okay -- I think there’s a coffee machine a couple rooms over.” 

They stared at each other for a long moment, until it dawned on Felicity that he thought _she would get him a replacement coffee_. For the one he used to slaughter her electronics. The screeching sound of rage that came out of her wasn’t even _close_ to English.

Oliver leaned back, putting his hands out in a placating gesture. “Hey, chill. Why don’t _I_ get us some more coffee and you, like,” he shrugged, “pop a valium or something.”

Felicity stood, speechless, as he pushed himself up out of _her_ chair and skirted around her, his movements infuriatingly graceful and unhurried. “No coffee near the computers,” she grit out.

Oliver paused in the doorway, flashing what he surely thought was a devastating grin. “Okay. I’ll be back after my coffee break, then.”

& & &

The rest of Oliver’s first day didn’t go much better. 

He told her his friends called him Ollie; she resolutely called him Oliver.

He trailed reluctantly along behind her when she had to go solve IT problems, but paid more attention to the women practically swooning over him in the QC hallways.

He told her he was good with his hands when the new tower she requisitioned arrived, and Felicity sharply told him he was not to, under any circumstances, touch Frederica. Then they had an infuriating conversation about how and why she named her electronics, which ended with Oliver giving her a cheeky smile while promising to attend whatever funeral she chose to hold for the dearly departed Isadora. She glared back at him. The next morning he arrived with a tiny bouquet, which he handed to her with a somber, “For Isadora’s graveside service.” She was incredibly tempted to whack him over the head with it, but wordlessly handed him an empty cup and pointed him towards the kitchen to put them in water. They _were_ actually kind of pretty flowers.

The only slightly redeeming moment was when Oliver arrived back from his lunch break and hovered in the entryway to the IT department until she gave into curiosity and looked up at him. He smiled -- what seemed like an actual, genuine, not-trying-to-get-into-her-pants-but-just-kind-of-nice smile -- and waved her over, holding out a Starbucks cup for her. 

& & &

His first week continued about like that -- seven infuriating things for every considerate, surprisingly kind gesture he made. Felicity started to wonder what kind of massively indulgent childhood had turned him into _this_.

But every time she started to soften, started to think maybe the kind-hearted guy underneath the thoughtless selfishness was maybe the real Oliver, he would open his mouth and say something incredibly stupid.

Like, for instance: “I know how to use my phone. I mean, I know how to send dirty pictures to the ladies. What else do I need to know how to do?” 

“Oh, my God,” Felicity groaned, looking up from the carefully disassembled inner workings of Frederica, who was getting another Felicity Smoak Special Upgrade. “Please don’t say you send dick pics to poor, unsuspecting women.”

He grinned, and she didn’t even need to hear the answer. “I give the people what they want.”

“No,” Felicity shot back. “No, you don’t. Trust me, Oliver, no woman wants unsolicited pictures of your--” She stopped, because she remembered sitting through sexual harassment training during her orientation, and she was technically his supervisor, so directly discussing his _penis_ was probably over the line.

“I’ve never had any complaints,” Oliver answered, sounding a little defensive.

“That’s because you’re _Oliver Queen_ , I’m sure. And I’m also sure there’s a whole _gallery_ devoted to you on Celebrity Dick Pics dot com, because--”

“Because you’ve checked me out?” he interrupted, waggling his eyebrows at her.

“No!” she answered, and it came out really high pitched. “No, because by your own admission you’ve sent di-- uh, _dirty_ pics to multiple women. I don’t understand,” she continued, crossing her arms, “what makes guys think _that’s_ the picture we want?”

“What do you mean?” He had that honestly befuddled look on his face, the one that made her want to sit him down and teach him a thing or two about the real world that everyone who _wasn’t_ a billionaire lived in. The world in which each fuckup wasn’t fixed by mommy and daddy and a healthy application of money.

She suspected he had a good heart buried somewhere under the hot playboy exterior. Not that she thought he was _hot_ , just -- that was apparently the consensus view. Of America. Considering he was in People’s Sexiest Man Alive issue at age 19.

A picture spread that, if she remembered correctly, included some very, uh, _nice_ pictures of him shirtless at the beach. 

“I mean,” Felicity said, trying to drag her brain back out of dangerous waters, “why don’t you send pictures of your abs? Or your chest and your arms, you know?” Felicity wondered. “I mean, _those_ are the pictures that would get my attention.” 

Oliver’s eyebrows jumped up so high they nearly disappeared under the terrible, swoopy curtain of bangs. “Really?”

Felicity hesitated, replaying her words. “Oh!,” she said. “Wait, no -- when I said _you_ , I meant second person _plural_. You know, like why don’t _you guys_ send me hot pics. Women!” she corrected. “Why don’t you guys send _women_ hot pictures. I’m not saying _I_ want pictures of your -- the _collective_ your, not _you_ your -- of your body.” Felicity dropped her face into her hands. “Oh, my God, I’m going to get fired for accidentally sexually harassing the idiot son of the CEO,” she muttered.

Silence settled mercifully over them for all of, like, 10 seconds before Oliver tapped her on the shoulder and said, “It’s not sexual harassment if it’s appreciated, right?”

Felicity groaned, but made herself straighten up and meet his gaze. His smug, stupid, smirk-y gaze. She tilted her head to the side. “How long is your internship?”

Oliver was practically beaming at her when he answered. “You’ve got me at your mercy all summer.”

-30-


	9. Suggestion:  established olicity on a plane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I blame youguysimserious for this.

Felicity sneaks another glance at Oliver, who’s hunched uncomfortably in the window seat and staring glumly at the ground a mile below. His elbows are on the armrests, his hands clenched together in his lap. He’s not happy about spending six hours in a coach seat, but they are not rolling in money or private jets the way he used to. 

For someone who survived on an island for a couple years, it’s cute how bad he is at suffering through something as commonplace as flying commercial.

She wants to smirk at him, but affects a pout, “Geez,” she says, leaning her shoulder into his, ignoring the way the armrest cuts into her ribcage, “you could try to look a little less sad about going on vacation with me.”

Oliver straightens immediately, turning as much as he can in his seat. “No,” he says, eyes wide and a little panicky, the way he still gets every time he thinks he’s disappointed her. Like he’s still not sure she won’t walk away from him. It would be touching if it weren’t so frustrating. His palm lands on her knee and squeezes. “It’s not--”

“The thought,” she interrupts, lowering her voice so it can just barely be heard over the thrum of the 737 engines, “of five days alone in a fancy beach house with me? And no leather? Except,” she continues, pausing to press a quick kiss to his jaw, “whatever leather items I may have packed in my suitcase.”

Oliver blinks, his mouth dropping open, and then he so very articulately says, “Huh?”

Felicity can’t stop the smirk this time. “I don’t mean to say I told you so, but you’re too big for the window seat,” she points out. The broadness of his shoulders and the size of his biceps -- two of the many aspects of his insane body that she profoundly appreciates -- really make it hard for him to fit in the confines of a typical airplane seat. “We should’ve booked the aisle.”

He seems to be still reeling from her suggestive comment about leather, and takes a moment to formulate a response. “I like to see where we’re going,” he manages, his voice rough and affected.

She lets her hand drift over to his space, landing lightly on his thigh. “You are a bit of a control freak,” she murmur, tilting her chin up in her universal signal for kiss me immediately. 

Oliver complies. 

With gusto. 

And more enthusiasm than she was expecting, actually, considering they’re on a commercial jetliner in broad daylight, and there’s a vaguely disapproving college student on the other side of Felicity. But she forgets most of that as he deepens the kiss, his fingers tangling in her hair, then cupping her head to hold her in place. 

Like the control freak he is.

Felicity shifts in her seat, crossing her legs towards him, trapping his hand between her thighs. He groans, and she angles herself to face him more fully. Then she gets a hand around his neck and pulls him closer. Because maybe she needs to be in charge for a little while. He clearly needs someone to make him actually take a vacation.

Before things spin too wildly out of control, Oliver pulls back, breathing heavily, and then presses a sweet, chaste kiss to the edge of her mouth. “I’m not a control freak,” he protests.

She snickers. “Sure. Okay.”

“I’m not!” he argues, and then he’s the one leaning close and dropping his voice. “You know I’ll do anything you ask of me.” It’s totally the tease of his breath across the sensitive skin of her neck that makes her shiver. Not his words.

Not the sudden, vivid recollections of the many times he has done exactly what she’s asked for. The thing with the salmon ladder one late night alone in the foundry. The hours he’s spent with his head between her thighs. The way he fucks her exactly how she tells him to. 

(And, yes, okay, sometimes it’s less telling and more begging, but the important part is he always does it. And does her. Spectacularly.)

She can feel the flush on her chest and shifts in her seat. The smug, knowing smirk Oliver gives her in response is just infuriating. Because it’s not like she can’t give it right back to him. The smugness, not the -- well, okay, she can give it right back, too. She’d love to give it right now, but they’re on a commercial jet somewhere over the southwestern United States, so... 

She narrows her eyes at him, lets her fingers drift higher on his thigh. “So,” she drawls, “if I ask you to do what I say this week...?”

Oliver’s eyes are dark and they’ve been together long enough for her to recognize just how tightly he’s trying to hold onto his control right now. He leans in, nuzzles his nose against her cheek, and whispers, “Then I’ll do it, Miss Smoak.”

She’s the one to snap upright, this time, leaning away from the man radiating lust and promises, because she needs to take, like, a little bit of a gulp of air. And tell her heart to settle down. And maybe just make sure her hands aren’t shaking.

Because Oliver’s willing and she’s pretty sure he packed a couple suits, which means he’ll have a couple silk ties. And she knows she picked a beach house with a big, fancy king size bed that just happens to have a headboard that practically begs to have things tied to it.   
Felicity leans past Oliver, peering out the window as if she’ll have any idea where they are based on the expanse of green below them. “How much longer?” she demands. 

Oliver laughs and slings his arm around her shoulders, giving her as much of a hug as he can manage. “Too long,” he says, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Definitely too long.”

Frowning, Felicity gives him a quick once over. “Hmmm.”

“What?” he asks, looking honestly puzzled.

“No, it’s just,” she lifts her hand from his leg and waves it in the general direction of his chest, “if you’re too big for this seat, you’re definitely too big for any--” She stops herself, her cheeks flushing, because she should really not be talking about fucking her boyfriend in the bathroom of this plane. “Never mind.”

From the slow, appreciative grin that appears on Oliver’s face, she knows he’s figured out exactly what she’d been about to suggest. “Oh, I don’t know,” he says, dipping his head down to kiss the column of her neck. He tugs her earlobe into his mouth for a moment, then whispers, “I’m big, but you know I can make it work.”

The sound Felicity makes in response to that is embarrassing. But she pushes him away, running a hand through her hair to pull herself back together. Then she pins him with her gaze, lifts an eyebrow, and pops open her seatbelt. “Two minutes,” she says, and the awed look on his face is too much.

She grins all the way to the lavatories in the back of the plane.

-30-


	10. Smutty Prompt Response: angry Felicity is is weakness (Rated M)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mersayseh said: YES YES YES YES. OK. "It was his weakness. He hated to admit it. But angry Felicity? His fucking achilles heel."

It was his weakness.

 

He hated to admit it, but angry Felicity? Was his fucking Achilles heel.

He could be pissed off, too -- at her, at the latest scumbag in the Glades, at the _world_ , whatever -- or feeling guilty, or too exhausted to care, whatever. Who she was mad at or why made no difference. He never cared if he was at fault, or just playing the supportive boyfriend. Didn’t matter his state of mind, when he saw Felicity infuriated, he was instantly and massively turned on.

Like now.

She stood across from him in the semi-darkness of their new lair, her face flushed with anger, arms crossed beneath her breasts. She glared at him, practically vibrating with rage.

Oliver was half-hard already, and he’d just gotten back.

“Are you even _listening_ to me?” she practically shouted. “Because you sure as hell weren’t listening earlier.”

He felt a spark of anger underneath all the lust and stepped closer. “I had him, Felicity. He was cornered and I knew I had the time--”

“But you _didn’t_ have the time,” she raged, and he could see the fear underlying this explosion. It’d been a close call and he’d been out solo. And Felicity told him to leave, to live to fight another day instead of face down a bunch of goons with guns.

He hadn’t exactly listened. “I got out, Felicity. I’m _fine_.” He closed the distance between them, his hands landing on her upper arms, urging her closer.

Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, no, Oliver, you’re not fucking your way out of this.”

Oliver took a half step back, staring at her, a little shocked and a lot aroused. “Excuse me?” Because she engaged in dirty talk on occasion, but she wasn’t usually quite so blunt when they were... not actually having sex. His cock twitched in the tight confines of his leather pants.

She was breathing hard, and he couldn’t help that his gaze dropped to her breasts, presented impressively by the v-neck of her halter dress. “I’m _mad_ at you,” she said.

“You were scared,” he argued, easing the quiver over his head and putting it on the nearby table without so much as glancing away from her. When he reaches for the zipper on his jacket, she looks down at his chest and licks her lips, then glares at him. She was pissed at him, but she was turned on -- he recognized the hitch in her breath, and the way she couldn’t stop taking little looks at his body.

He was hard as a fucking rock, and his pants were entirely too tight to leave any question about it when she inevitably looked at his crotch. She took in an unsteady breath.

But she was apparently determined to finish fighting before they got to the fucking. Damn it. 

“Don’t tell me how I felt,” she ordered, cocking her hip. He didn’t know if she was intending to make him hotter, but the high color in her cheeks, the way her crossed arms pressed her breasts up and out, and the little sway when she shifted her weight -- yeah, it was all working for him. 

“I’m right,” he grit out, reaching for her again and pulling her flush against him. Because he knew, now, that she liked it when he got a little forceful, a little commanding. Assuming she was in the mood for it. “But you can yell at me anyway,” he muttered, tightening his grip on her arms. “ _After_ ,” he added, putting every bit of innuendo he could into that one word.

He ducked his head and kissed her, and like something snapped, her small hands were on his jacket, pushing it back and off of his shoulders. He groaned into her mouth, his hands trailing along her mostly bare back, then sweeping up to the back of her neck to fumble for a button or a zipper or a clasp or whatever the fuck was holding her dress together.

Felicity was kissing him like it was part of their fight, all insistent tongue and teeth nipping at his lips. They’d had angry sex before, but this was more -- hotter, harder, angrier. So he gave a mental shrug, grabbed the fabric of her dress, and pulled until whatever was keeping the halter fastened gave and the fabric fell to her waist, baring her breasts.

“Oliver,” she snapped, her nails digging into his shoulder blades, “stop ruining my clothes.”

“You love it,” he murmured into the curve of her left breast. Above him, she snorted, but her hands were pressing against the back of his head, holding him closer.

He bent a little lower, his hands landing on her thighs and trailing up. He lifted her without warning, depositing her none too gently on the metal workstation. Reluctantly, he released her nipple and then gave her a challenging look when he slid one hand up to her underwear, intending to just tear the scrap from her body.

“Don’t,” she ordered, leaning back on her elbows and pressing her knees to his hips for leverage so she could lift her hips. Oliver pulled her panties off, then unbuttoned and unzipped his leather pants, pushing them down over his hips to free his cock. 

Felicity got a hand around his neck and yanked him forward. He bent over her where she still leant back, resting on one elbow. When he kissed her, he could still feel the irritation in her kiss, the way she was taking what she wanted from him, without any of the things she normally did to get him going.

But everything about her right now was getting him going. He moved a hand to her clit, rubbing it a few times, then slid two fingers inside. She was hot and wet and more than ready for him. If he had any doubts, they were erased by the way she was riding his fingers, her head thrown back and her back arched.. 

“Oliver,” she insisted, lifting her head to look at him and tightening her thighs around his hips. He pressed forward, holding his cock at her entrance.

He was more than fucking willing to obey her unspoken command, but he couldn’t resist a pause to say, “I thought I couldn’t fuck my way out of this?”

He could see the smile she was fighting to suppress as she rolled her eyes. “You probably can’t, but let’s give it a whirl anyway,” she said, “see how it-- _Oh_!”

Oliver paused, his fingers tight on her hips, his cock finally buried in her wet heat. His voice came out low and throaty when he said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

And then he was moving, thrusting, while he hooked his arms under her knees, bracing his hands on the table beside her. Felicity was still leaning on her elbows, her turquoise halter dress a crumpled mess of fabric around her waist. He leaned in, kissing her roughly, then sucking a nipple, keeping his pace hard and insistent.

The table rocked beneath them, inching along the floor with each pump of his hips. Felicity moaned, moving as much as she could to meet him thrust for thrust. Her eyes were wide behind her glasses, pupils blown, her mouth open as she took in gulps of air. She was fucking gorgeous. She was heaven, just like every time, and he wasn’t going to last very much longer. 

“Felicity,” he managed. “Touch yourself for me.”

She gave him a jerky nod, then collapsed back onto the table, hissing and arching her back as the cool aluminum hit her skin. And Oliver couldn’t keep himself from leaning over to lick and suck her breasts. The shift changed his angle, and Felicity moaned, one hand slipping between them to circle her clit.

He watched her touching herself for a minute, felt the orgasm advancing on him. “Felicity.”

Her other hand clamped down on his bicep and tugged. Oliver released her legs and folded himself over her, his forearms on either side of her body as he kissed her and fucked her and -- she gasped into his mouth and he could feel her clenching around him.

Two, three more thrusts and he was coming, his mouth open and pressed against her neck and he groaned with the white heat of it.

He stayed there, braced over her, his legs weak and a little shaky, until Felicity ran her hand down his spine and lightly patted his ass. Oliver lifted his head and met her gaze for a moment, before kissing her softly.

She looped her arms loosely around his neck and let him pull her upright. Oliver groaned and pulled out of her, standing between her thighs with his hands on her waist. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Felicity snapped her head up and studied him. 

“Really,” he insisted, smoothing his hands up her sides. “I’m sorry.”

Her eyes were suspiciously shiny, and Oliver started to panic, wondering what he’d missed. “Hey, hey,” he said. “Felicity--”

“Don’t make me listen to you die over the comms,” she said, her voice uneven.

“Oh, hey.” Oliver stepped closer and pulled her against him, wrapping his arms tight around her ribcage. “I swear, Felicity, I wouldn’t.”

She nodded against his chest. “I was scared.”

Oliver pressed kisses to her hair, to her temple, and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Her small hands traced paths along his back. “I know.”

-30-


	11. Smutty Spoiler-Based Drabbe: olicity, based on Andy-That-Guy-on-Twitter-Who-Saw-Some-Filming-for-the-Finale spoilers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arrow season finale spoiler/spec ficlet (feat. smut!). If you’re not familiar with The Andy Saga of 16 April, you should probably skip this unless you want to be spoiled.

Everything is perfect.

Well, no. 

Felicity knows that’s not true. Roy is still wandering the southwest, trying to figure out where the next phase of his life will start. Thea is stable – mostly – but still recovering from her ordeal. John is – well, he’s angry and he’s not currently speaking to Oliver, but she knows he’ll come around.

She’s even pretty sure Laurel will bring Detective Lance around. Eventually.

So nothing is actually _perfect_ , but then again – it is. Because she and Oliver are cruising the PCH in a fancy sports car, headed for a little beachfront rental for the weekend. Because he made it through his latest crucible and so did she. Because they’re together and nothing is on fire. Because Oliver is here. With her. Really _with_ her in all of it – in figuring out what comes next. In figuring out how to help Thea, how to support Roy from afar, how to mend fences with Dig. 

And she knows it’s cheesy, but she really does feel like they’re stronger together. They can handle whatever comes next because he’s _with_ her.

He’s happy. Which is honestly the most amazing thing in the world.

Sure, the Porsche is sexy, and the sight of him leaning casually against it, dripping with sex appeal in his black t-shirt and really well-fitted jeans, was – well, it was enough to get her pulse racing when she emerged from the office to meet him. It's possible she stumbled a little bit at the sight. And, yes, they’re driving the coastline, top down, wind in her hair, music cranked, their hands tangled together on her thigh, and it feels amazing -- like they're in a music video for one of those frothy songs that become the soundtrack for the summer. 

But that’s not what she’ll remember from today.

No, she’ll remember the way he squeezes her hand every time he needs to let go of her to shift gears. She’ll remember the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he grins at her, his skin bronze in the warm orange glow of the sunset. She’ll remember the sound of his delighted laughter when he downshifted to accelerate around a corner, the engine roaring its accompaniment.

Oliver slows the car, which brings Felicity out of her reverie. She looks over at him, her gaze tracing his familiar profile before he glances at her. He lifts her hand and kisses her wrist, then places it on her thigh while he downshifts. And, yes, watching him confidently handle the stick shift? Pretty hot. 

They’re pulling off the road, onto a small overlook that is mostly disguised by the safety rail until you’re practically in it. The Porsche tucks in perfectly, obscured from traffic in both directions until cars are beside the turnout.

The sun is nearly down, just a tiny slice of orange hovering over the water as the car rolls to a stop. Oliver shifts into first and cuts the engine, turning down the radio now that the wind isn’t roaring past. Felicity can’t stop staring at the rocky coastline below them, the craggy boulders dark and wet, only dimly lit by the fading sun. The water is a deep blue beneath the technicolor gloaming, waves crashing foamy white into the rocks.

She reaches for him, her hand landing on his jeans-clad thigh, drawing peace and reassurance even from such a simple touch. She lets her forearm rest on the low console between them, her head tilted slightly toward him so she can lean against the headrest without smooshing her ponytail. 

When she glances at him, Oliver is watching her, not the sunset. She starts to smile. “It’s beautiful out here.” She squeezes his thigh. “I’m glad we’re doing this.” She means the weekend away, but she also means so much more than that.

Oliver’s expression softens, and she knows he understood. She knows he understands her, now. “You’re beautiful,” he says, and she blushes. It’s not because of the compliment -- it’s because of the soul-baring sincerity on his face. She has missed this Oliver so much. _Her_ Oliver. 

And he really is _her Oliver_ now, which is -- something she’s still adjusting to.

A wave of giddiness hits her as she stares at his familiar face, glowing with happiness in the soft light of the sunset, and her feelings are too vast. She doesn’t know how she’s not just flying apart with all of these big feelings. And Oliver -- he just holds her gaze, and he nods, and she thinks maybe he’s as overwhelmed as she is.

So since she can do this now, she unfastens her seat belt and shifts in her seat, leaning on the console to kiss him. It’s a slow kiss, sweet and passionate and deep, and his hands are on her arms, her ribcage, her waist. She can’t keep track of anything other than the lust and happiness he brings out of her with every touch. 

When she opens her eyes again, panting a little, the sun has disappeared, leaving them in the dimness of early evening. She knows they have dinner reservations somewhere near the rental house, and miles to go before they sleep -- or _eat_ \-- but she doesn’t care. They’ve taken so very long to get here, and so many of their decisions along the way have been on someone else’s timetable or affected by external pressures that she just wants to take a moment for them. _This_ moment, together in the warm summer evening, serenaded by the ocean.

Everything is still so new between them that she doesn’t yet have the patience to wait.

So she reaches for him again, and she can tell from the shift in his breathing that Oliver is on the same page. His lips crash against hers, and he gets an arm around her back and tugs. 

It’s awkward -- neither one of them is particularly interested in stopping the kissing, so she twists and gets a knee under her, the leather seat warm and smooth against her bare leg. She’s leaning towards him, the console the only barrier between them. Oliver shifts forward, and she moves with him so she can keep kissing him, her fingers tight against his back, pressure building low in her belly. He breaks away momentarily, and she drags her eyes open just as the driver’s seat careens back several inches with a metallic protest.

Oliver is unfazed, grasping her by the hips and lifting.

“Oliver!” she yelps, her arms flying out to the sides to try to hold on or balance or brace herself as he moves her. Her ass hits the steering wheel -- though thankfully not the horn -- and she nearly knees him as she tries to resettle into his lap. She has one hand on the window frame, and the other on his headrest, and she gives him an exasperated look. “Really?”

But he’s grinning up at her -- cheerfully and even _playfully_ , and that is her Kryptonite, so before she knows it, she’s smiling back at him.

“Really,” he says, gazing up at her, the same slightly dazed look on his face as their first time in Nanda Parbat.

But this isn’t candles and red drapery and looming separation. 

This is _life_. With Oliver Queen.

Who reaches a trembling hand to her face, his finger tips grazing her cheek, before urging her chin down for a soft, chaste kiss. “Really,” he repeats, his lips moving against hers as he speaks. “Anytime, anywhere, Felicity. I can’t get enough of you.”

Felicity brings her hands up to cup his face, deepening the kiss. His stubble is soft and scratchy against her palms. She's got her shins braced on the edges of his bucket seat, her knees pressed up against the back of the seat, and the steering wheel is mere inches behind her. It’s not comfortable, and there's barely room to sit stride him, never mind move, but she has no desire to be anywhere else in the world. 

The last vestiges of daylight fade as their kisses grow more frantic, leaving them in near darkness. Felicity barely hears the waves below them, barely notices that they're left illuminated only by faint starlight. Because Oliver’s hands are on her thighs, his thumbs rubbing gently against the skin beneath her skirt, and they can have this now. Anytime they want.

The thought is exhilarating, and she nips his bottom lip. He laughs against her mouth. 

When he shifts forward, bringing his hips to align more with hers, she can feel him through his jeans, hard and ready. Felicity’s no prude, but she’s definitely never had sex by the side of a road before; she’s never really _wanted_ to. But here, with Oliver, she’s leaning back a bit and reaching for his jeans before she realizes she’s made a decision. There are few cars on the road, and the Porsche is mostly hidden from oncoming traffic.

And more importantly, she just wants him. She wants _them_ , that connection she feels to him when he’s inside of her, all of his attention focused on her.

Oliver pauses, his mouth hot against her collarbone, and murmurs. “Felicity, we don’t have to--”

“Am I tugging your pants off, or am I _not_ tugging your pants off?” she interrupts tartly. Because _really_. She’s no shrinking violet.

His fingers tighten on her thighs as he laughs against her skin. “Well, not _off_.”

She grins, pressing a kiss into his close-cropped hair, because he’s right -- there’s no way either of them are actually getting undressed inside this tiny sports car. “Down, then,” she agrees, moving to make good on her words. “I’m tugging your pants _down_ ," she says, tapping his waist until he lifted enough to ease his jeans down just far enough, "so I think my enthusiastic participation is well and truly established, unless you need me to–”

Oliver makes the most adorable half-laugh, half-growling noise just before he leans up to kiss her. He pushes her skirt up her thighs, skimming his fingertips along her skin so lightly it makes her shiver. She’s trying to smile and kiss him at the same time, and it’s not easy, because she feels like she’s bursting at the seams with happiness. 

Then his talented fingers slip beneath her panties, and her breath hitches, and it’s not laughter but a moan trapped in her throat. She tilts her hips forward, allowing him better access, and he takes advantage, teasing her clit before sliding a finger inside. They both moan at the sensation.

Felicity wraps her hand around his cock, and their wrists are bumping together as they work each other up. They kiss and kiss, until Felicity tilts her head back and tries to remember how to breathe. Her distracted gaze drifts along the star-strewn sky. It would probably be beautiful if she had the wherewithal to pay it any real attention. 

There’s not a lot of room in the bucket seat, so when Oliver removes his hand, she releases him and reaches for her panties, tugging them to the side as she lifts up onto her knees. 

Oliver groans at the sight, his eyes dark and intense. He shifts forward in the seat as much as he can, until he’s brushing up against her entrance. Felicity pauses, then holds her breath as she lowers down. Oliver groans, his grip tightening on her hips.

She stills when he's as deep as he can go at this angle, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders. She waits until he opens his eyes, smiling softly up at her, and then she leans in and they’re kissing. When she starts to move, it’s slow and gentle, shallow strokes. She rocks above him, and she doesn’t stop kissing him. She’ll have beard burn around her mouth, and bruises from his fingers on her hips and she doesn’t care.

In fact, she likes it.

When her arousal catches and starts to smolder, she grips his headrest, using it for more leverage as she rides him as enthusiastically as the cramped car seat allows. Her knee is wedged against the door, and she barely notices the discomfort because his warm hands are tracing lazy lines on her thighs, cupping her breasts, smoothing down her back, gripping her ass. 

Oliver’s groaning into her mouth, his hips lifting up into her as she moves. Felicity’s orgasm is building so, so, so slowly, she thinks it'll take all night, and then it’s suddenly crashing over her in waves. She arches back, his name on her lips, grinding down on him to prolong the ecstasy, and he never stops moving, pressing, thrusting into her.

She’s laughing a little, still coming down from bliss when she opens her eyes. Oliver is staring up at her in wonder, his mouth hanging open as he pants for breath and moves inside of her. He’s beautiful, and she can see the moment he starts to fall, recognizes it even before he starts to thrust frantically into her, feet planted on the floorboards. 

He groans something that sounds like her name when he comes and sits up. He bands his arms tight around her torso, his forehead coming to rest on her shoulder as he sucks in great gulps of air. She loops her arms around his neck and holds him close. She loves the stutter in his heavy breathing, loves the soft kisses he presses into her skin.

“I love you,” he says, his face pressed to her neck. “So fucking much, Felicity.”

She squeezes him with her arms, tightens her thighs against his hips. “I love you, too, Oliver.” Felicity tilts her head down, and adds, “So fucking much.”

Oliver laughs, and then straightens a bit just so he can slump back against the seat and grin lazily up at her. “I love it when you swear.” He’s smoothing his palms up and down her spine, and she kind of wants to curl into him for a cat nap. His smile fades a bit, and even in the starlight, she can see the way he’s studying her.

“What?” she prompts, tracing aimless patterns in the soft cotton of his t-shirt.

He lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I’m just--” He stops, straightens enough to kiss her quickly, the holds her gaze. “Thank you for never giving up on me,” he says, his tone solemn and earnest in the same way it is when he promised her forever.

Felicity places her palm flat against his sternum, feeling the reassuring thump of his heartbeat beneath her fingers. “Thank you for never giving me a reason to.”

-30-


	12. olicity, prom dress shopping for Thea AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dettiot asked: "Hey, I know this is weird, but you look to be about the same size as my sister--would you try on this prom dress so I can see if it would fit her?"

"Hey, I know this is weird, but you look to be about the same size as my sister--would you try on this prom dress so I can see if it would fit her?"

It takes a moment for Felicity to realize that the incredibly attractive guy standing on the other side of the clothes rack is looking at her somewhat expectantly. Which means he was probably _speaking_ to her about... prom dresses? She blinks. “I’m twenty-four.”

The hot guy -- seriously, he looks like a model -- gives a tiny head shake. “Okay.”

When she makes herself replay his request in her mind, she realizes that probably doesn’t matter. “Oh,” she says, nodding, “sorry. You just-- You wanted me to... model clothes for you?” She frowns at him, because-- “That’s still weird even if you’re not asking me to prom.”

He’s starting to smile now, and there are dimples involved and he’s got the most ridiculously attractive face that she’s ever seen in real life. “I’m twenty-six,” he points out.

“Right,” Felicity says. “You look very mature. I mean, not like _old_ , just very manly.” She can feel her cheeks heating up. It’s totally beyond her control when her hand lifts up and gestures at his very broad chest. “You’re clearly not in high school.”

Mr. Gorgeous Face presses his lips together like he’s trying not to laugh, then ducks his chin and huffs in amusement. “Definitely not in high school,” he confirms, “and I’m sorry if my request threw you off. Don’t worry about it -- Thea will hate whatever options I bring her anyway.” He seems genuinely sad about that, and maybe a little defeated.

Like a forlorn puppy. And Felicity has the strangest, strongest desire to make him feel better.

“Why are you shopping for your sister’s prom dress, anyway?” Felicity asks, even though it’s absolutely none of her business. The thought of his crazy hot guy being so kind to his sister as to brave the Nordstrom’s dress section is totally _not_ doing anything to her pulse. At all.

“She’s grounded for--” he breaks off with a grimace, then shrugs. “For good reason, but my mother is letting her to go prom. And Thea refuses to buy a dress online. So.” He shrugs rather helplessly. “Here I am.”

Felicity chews on her lip for a moment, her recent pressing need for a couple cute, work-appropriate dresses completely slipping her mind as she examines the long, drapey garments he’s holding. She circles the rack, coming to stand beside him and, wow, he is really big up close. Tall and broad and she swears she can smell a hint of aftershave -- something deep and woodsy. 

The whole package is kind of overwhelming. Her glance drifts from the dress in his hands to, well, his package out of curiosity, but all she can tell is that the man can wear himself some jeans. Mercy.

But she’s trying to help, not perv on him, so she focuses on his terrible fashion sense. “This,” she says, rubbing her finger and thumb on the deep magenta fabric of the first dress he’s holding, “is not something a high school kid will want to wear,” she tells him. “It’s long and matronly and blechhhh.”

He actually looks a little offended. “She’s seventeen.”

Felicity nods. “Exactly. So she’ll want something short and--” Off of his glower, she stops and restates, “something short _er_ than this weird 80s-bridesmaid-looking thing you’re holding, and probably a brighter color than this dreary magenta.”

“She does like,” he pauses, making a strange expansive gesture with his hands, “shiny things. Bright colors.”

Felicity grins, gesturing down at her fuchsia top, and feeling her breath catch a little when his gaze skims down her body. “Okay, then,” she says, sounding only a little affected, “I’m _definitely_ your girl.” She pauses, hating that she can feel an intense blush on her cheeks. “I mean, not your _girl_ girl, just--”

“Thank you,” he says, and she can hear the amusement in his voice. He touches her shoulder carefully, and there’s nothing the least bit sexual about it, but it kicks her heartbeat into high gear. Then to make matters worse, he smiles at her. A full-blown smile that makes his gorgeous blue eyes dance. “You’re a lifesaver, and I don’t even know your name.” 

“Felicity,” she manages, a little breathlessly under the unfair power of his smile. “Felicity Smoak.”

“Felicity,” he repeats, and she’s always found her name to be kind of long and a little awkward to say, but it rolls off his tongue in a really great way. In fact, she’d like to hear him say it a lot. Under different circumstances. “I’m Oliver Queen.”

The name tickles something in her memory, but she can’t quite access it. So she grins and says, “Nice to meet you, Oliver.”

As it turns out, shopping for a reasonably modest but super-cute prom dress for a total stranger is harder than it sounds, but a whole lot more fun that she ever expected. It takes them nearly an hour and a half to choose three options for Oliver to buy and bring home for Thea. He asks several times over the course of their conversation if Felicity will model the dresses, and she refuses each time. Only once does her refusal include an accidental reference to _stripping for him_ , so she considers it mostly a win.

Once Oliver hands the dresses off to the clerk to ring up, Felicity takes a step back, awkwardly hitching her thumb toward the mall door. “Well,” she says, “it’s been strangely fun, but I should--”

“No,” Oliver interrupts, reaching for her hand and squeezing it in his. “Please -- let me take you to dinner.”

Felicity opens her mouth and closes it again, trying to get her bearings. “There’s no need,” she says, waving her free hand towards the counter where the clerk is unabashedly watching them. “I didn’t mind.” She flushes and corrects herself. “I mean, I had fun, so you don’t need to worry about thanking me or whatever.”

Oliver is giving her that little barely-a-smile again. “I’m not taking you to dinner to thank you.”

It sounds worse when he says it, even though she’d literally just made the same suggestion. She swallows the completely unreasonable stab of disappointment. “Right,” she says, all false brightness and cheer, “so I’ll just--”

“Felicity,” he says, squeezing her hand, which he is still holding for some reason, “Would you like to go to dinner with me?” His smile widens a little. “As in a date, not a thank you.”

Oh.

_Oh._

Felicity blinks. And then she’s nodding rather maniacally and makes herself stop. “Yes,” she says. “That would be-- I mean, I’d love that.” She looks down at her outfit, which is definitely cute but not dressy, and says, “Can we go to my place?” The unintended implication registers, and she flushes -- again -- and waves a hand in the air between them. “Not for-- I mean so that I can change. Into something date appropriate.”

He’s grinning at her as he steps closer, right into her personal space, and he’s just really gargantuan. “You can take me to your place any time, Felicity,” he murmurs, and she opens her mouth to answer, but then he closes the distance between them and kisses her. Sweetly, but just before he pulls back, his tongue skates across her bottom lip. 

Damn. 

-30-


	13. Prompt Response: olicity, S4 domesticity in the loft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> msbelleborg asked: Olicity prompt request: I am looking forward to early S4, R'as gone, Oliver back. I am hoping for domesticity. Maybe Felicity setting up tech in the loft, with Oliver being mostly unhelpful. Or scenes at both the loft and her place as they try to figure out living/working/Arrowing.

Felicity frowned at the small workstation she’d created in the corner of Oliver’s bedroom. The very reasonably sized desk was positively overburdened by the two large monitors. Plus, whenever she sat so she could reach the keyboard, her face ended up so close to the monitors that it felt like she was in the front row of a movie theater. But even squished into the corner the way her little workstation was, it looked out of place among Oliver’s spartan bedroom furniture.

She was trying not to take up too much of his space with what she kept referring to as Foundry Backup the Third -- or FBIII, because the play on FBI made her laugh. FBIII was too cramped to function as well as her normal setup, but, really, she _needed_ at least two monitors or what was even the point.

Oliver’s hand landed on her hip, skimming around to her stomach to pull her back against him. Which normally she would be a fan of -- particularly when he added a soft kiss to her neck, his stubble scratching along her sensitive skin in a really perfect kind of way -- but he’d been trying to seduce her away from messing around with FBIII for a while now. Felicity shrugged out of his grasp and gave him an annoyed look. “Patience,” she said. “I just need to move the monitors a little bit. Maybe reroute the--”

“Felicity,” he murmured, taking her hand gently in his. “What’s really wrong?”

She frowned, half-turning to face him. “Nothing. Why? What makes you think something’s wrong?”

He quirked an eyebrow in that incredibly unfair way of his. “We need a bigger desk,” he said, nodding towards FBIII. “You need more room to work.”

“No,” she protested, squeezing his hand in reassurance. “I don’t need both monitors.” She turned to look at her setup. “I can just–”

“Felicity.”

She sighed, shifting uncomfortably. “I’m sorry I brought an unreasonable amount of Felicity stuff into your home. I don’t want you to feel like I’m invading your space with--”

“Hey, hey,” he interrupted, tugging her around to face him. “I want you here,” he told her in that solemn tone he used when he wanted her to know he was serious. “All the time. I want your stuff here.” He gave a helpless little shrug. “I want _you_ here. With me.” He took her free hand, too, and they stood there staring at each other until he started to smile and added, “I want you here all the time.”

Felicity knew her eyes had gone wide, that her mouth had dropped open just a little in shock. Because that kind of sounded like he wanted her in the loft all the time. As in... _living_ in the loft. But that was ridiculous. He couldn’t have meant it _that_ way. Could he?

“Yes, Felicity,” Oliver said, and he was grinning at her now. “I love you. You’re it for me, forever. You know this. Of _course_ I want you here.”

Okay. That was slightly more clear, but he didn’t actually say he wanted her to live there. She chewed her lip for a moment, then took what was supposed to be a calming breath, but in actuality did not a single thing to steady her racing heart. “I love you, too,” she said. “I just-- I don’t want to rush you, Oliver, or--”

“I’ve loved you for two years,” he said. “At least. I’ve wanted this, _us_ , for two years.” Oliver shrugs. “I’d marry you at the courthouse tomorrow, Felicity. I’m that sure of us.”

She stopped breathing. All she could do was stare at him. And then he leaned down to kiss her, his arms wrapping around her back and lifting her against his chest as she went up on her tiptoes. After a thoroughly enjoyable amount of time, he eased back, setting her on her feet and leaning his forehead against hers.

“Move in with me, Felicity,” Oliver murmured. “I want to wake up to you every single day.”

Felicity had no chance to fight her answering smile. “Okay,” she said. “I want that, too, Oliver.” 

He picked her up then, and twirled her around once, and a year ago she would never have expected such exuberance from her grim, brooding vigilante. She was thankful every single day that he’d finally forgiven himself enough to let himself be happy. At least some of the time. 

“Good,” Oliver said, kissing her again and again as he backed toward the bed. “Let’s celebrate.”

Felicity leaned back, one palm on his chest, and glanced over at the closet. “Actually,” she said, “we should really talk about closet space.” She turned back to Oliver, beaming up at him as she added, “I have a _lot_ of clothes.”

-30-


	14. Episode-Related AU Drabble: Al Sah-Him is gone from Starling City and their lives for way longer than three weeks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Al Sah-Him is gone from Starling City and their lives for way longer than three weeks. Angsty fluff, or fluffy angst - you be the judge.

It’s been nearly two years since he’s been in Starling City.

Oliver should’ve known Ra’s would drag things out, would make him apprentice for months and months, never quite agreeing to step aside before Oliver – Al Sah-Him – performed yet _another_ task to prove his fealty.

Twenty-one months of torture, of psychological warfare waged against Oliver’s mind. And it had come so, so close to working. 

Or maybe it has. Oliver has done things as Al Sah-Him that he won’t be able to forgive, that he fears _she_ won’t be able to forgive. Regardless of his periodic failures, the eventual successes he owes almost entirely to the thought of her, of his tether to his humanity. His memory of her is the only thing that kept him sane, kept him safe in the viper pit that is Nanda Parbat. 

He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to come home, now that it’s finished. Even standing here, in Starling City, dangerously close to the loved ones he left behind, he’s not sure he can be the man they need. 

He wants to. _God_ , he wants nothing more than to come home, to reconnect with everyone he left behind. He just doesn’t know if he can trust himself with his sister, with Diggle and his family, with _her_. He’s even more broken now than when he came home the first time; whatever progress he’d made before Nanda Parbat, whatever solace he found for he wounds on his soul – the things he’s had to do to stay alive, to keep Ra’s from knowing he is still, somewhere deep inside, Oliver Queen – he’s got more red in his ledger. More guilt. More self-hatred. 

He survived, but he hasn’t felt worthy of the honor of living in too long. 

Which is why, instead of going to the door of _her_ townhouse, he finds himself on a rooftop across from the loft he shared with Thea, waiting to see her. Waiting for proof she’s safe and well. He did this for her, willingly sacrificed his soul to ensure her life – he needs to see that it meant something. 

It takes nearly two hours before she arrives home in the early darkness of late winter evenings. Oliver sees the door open, the lights flip on, and his heart is pounding at the sight of Thea, alive and well and-– 

He blinks. 

She’s–- She’s holding a toddler. 

Oliver stares and stares, watching Thea close and lock the door behind her, talking to the –- he thinks it’s a little boy, in brown shoes, tiny blue jeans, and a bright red t-shirt with what looks like a fire truck on it. He can’t make sense of this, can’t wrap his mind around what is right in front of him. 

_His sister had a baby?_

The little boy in her arms has light hair and a smile Oliver can see from across the street. Oliver’s eyes are stinging with tears of awe, of something that feels like happiness, and the pure rush of emotion is more than he can remember feeling in almost two years. 

He’d only intended to check in on them all. But before he can really think about it, he’s back down at street level, crossing to Thea’s building, and pressing in the security code that she hasn’t changed. He wonders if she left it the same for him, and his breathing goes a little unsteady at the thought. 

Oliver knows, logically, that they must have missed him. But he can’t help feeling that they were all better off without him. He can’t help hoping they’re all as happy as his sister seems to be. 

Oliver knocks on her door, his knees weak with anxiety and anticipation. Two years of fierce control over his emotions undone by the simple sight of his sister holding his nephew. 

And then Thea’s pulling the door open, greeting him, improbably, with, “Felicity, you’re early, I thought–” Thea freezes, her hand landing on her chest, her eyes wide and shocked. “ _Ollie_?” 

Oliver opens his mouth, but he can’t figure out what to say. 

Her gaze sweeps his form, taking in his obvious lack of League accoutrements, and then Thea launches herself into his arms, hugging him fiercely. “Oh, my God, _Ollie_ , you’re back.” Then she pulls back, a slight crease in her forehead as she studies him intently. “Are you back? You’re _you_ , right?” 

Oliver manages a rusty chuckle. “Yeah, Speedy. I’m-–” He stops, because he can’t truthfully say that he’s okay. Instead, he gives her the truth that he can. ”It’s over.” 

"I knew it,” she says, hugging him again. “I knew you’d come back.” 

There’s a noise from inside the loft, and Oliver opens his eyes, searching for the toddler he’d seen from the rooftop across the street. “Thea?” 

“Oh!” Thea goes rigid in his arms, then steps back. She looks nervous, suddenly, and he’s concerned she thinks he might be disappointed in her. Before he can come up with something to say, she beckons him into the loft and turns. 

The small boy is sitting on a blanket in the middle of the living area, surrounded by toys and pillows, watching them curiously as he bangs a stuffed frog against the floor. Thea moves to the toddler’s side and he reaches for her in a wordless demand to be picked up. Then he says “Up” and Oliver feels something hard and cold and dead inside of his chest crack open. 

How is it possible to love a child he had no idea existed before fifteen minutes ago? 

“Speedy,” he breathes, “he’s beautiful. What–” He stops, clears his throat against the rush of emotions. “What’s his name?” 

For some reason, Thea still seems anxious, even as she bounces the boy on her hip. “Andy,” she says, and the toddler grins at her. “This is Andy.” 

Oliver steps closer, his hand shaking as he reaches for Andy’s small first. “That’s a good name, Thea.” Andy opens his hand and gives Oliver an uncoordinated slap. Oliver grins at the child. “Nice to meet you, Andy,” he says, and his voice is rough with emotion. “I’m Oliver.” 

Andy’s bright blue eyes are studying him. And then he says, “Ov-vah.” 

Oliver remembers with sudden, stunning clarity Thea stumbling over his name as a child. It makes him smile again, and laugh just a little, and he’s now pretty sure he’s done more of that in the past ten minutes than the past two years. “Good job, buddy,” he tells Andy. “You can call me Ollie if it’s easier,” he offers. 

And Thea is shaking her head, looking almost panicked. “No, Ollie-– 

There’s the distinct sound of a key in the lock and Oliver reacts. He’s turned toward the threat with Thea and Andy safely behind him and a throwing knife in his hand before the door even begins to open. 

He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but he definitely isn’t expecting Felicity. 

Oliver forgets how to breathe. 

Felicity is standing stock still in the doorway, staring at him, those familiar pink-stained lips pursed in a perfect O of shock. Her hair is tied back in its familiar ponytail, glasses, different from when he’d last seen her, but almost the exact same shape, a white silky shirt, and a bright pink skirt. 

She looks... _perfectly_ Felicity. 

Whatever tenuous hold Oliver had on his emotions is gone. He can feel the tears welling in his eyes, blurring his vision of her, the woman he’s spent two years yearning for. He blinks rapidly, needing nothing so badly as to drink her in for just a little longer. Just long enough to believe she’s real and she’s here with him. 

“Oliver?” she whispers, keys dropping from her numb hands, rattling to the floor by her impractical black heels. 

He’s still stuck, still holding a throwing knife, still blocking Thea and Andy from the _total non-threat_ that is the love of his life. “Felicity,” he breathes. 

And then, from behind him, he hears Andy start to whine. Oliver can’t turn to look, can’t tear his gaze from Felicity, but he can hear rustling behind him, then uncoordinated toddler footsteps that tells him Thea put the boy down. 

What Oliver is not prepared for is to see Andy careen past him and crash into Felicity’s legs, reaching his hands up to her with an excited, “Mama!” 

When realization hits, it leaves Oliver dazed. There’s blood rushing in his ears and he’s a little unsteady on his feet. Thea’s behind him, then, her hand on his back. “Ollie? Do you need to sit down?” 

Maybe. But he can’t move. Felicity is staring right back at him as she reaches down and lifts Andy with practiced ease. At the sight, Oliver feels an impossible mix of joy and relief and bitter anger that he’s missed so much. Because-– Because-– 

“Hi, baby,” Felicity says, as Andy reaches up and pets her hair affectionately. Her gaze darts to Thea quickly. “Thea?” 

“He just got here,” Thea answers. “I just– I didn’t–” 

“Okay,” Felicity answers. She takes an unsteady breath and moves closer. 

Oliver is rooted to the spot. Felicity has a baby in her arms. _Her_ baby. _His_ \-- 

He can’t move closer to her and to–- 

His brain stutters and jumps at the thought, though he _knows_ , deep down, what she’s going to say. He _knows_. Looking at Andy is like looking at a picture of himself as a kid, and the truth is so terrifying and so exhilarating that it leaves him winded. 

“Oliver,” Felicity says, stepping into his personal space and gazing up at him, her eyes tracking the new lines on his face, the close-cropped hair, before meeting his again. 

He could drown here, staring at her as she stares back at him, with that familiar look of determination despite her anxiety. He’s never met a single person braver than Felicity is, and that was _before_ he knew he’d unintentionally left her to bear a child alone. 

Regret is bitter and sudden, tightening his throat and choking off whatever inadequate apology he could try to make. 

“This is-–” Her voice breaks and she smiles a little. “Oliver, this is your son, Andy.” 

He doesn’t know how to respond, can’t respond. He just waits there in the moment, the hard shell he’d built up so carefully in Nanda Parbat abandoning him completely, leaving him raw and unguarded as he meets his son –- _his son_. 

And then Andy reaches out and touches Oliver’s face, feeling his stubble. The sensation makes Andy laugh, and it’s too much for Oliver. The tears threatening spill over. Oliver folds forward, his hands covering his face as his forehead lands on Felicity’s shoulder. “I didn’t know,” he chokes. “Felicity, I’m sorry. I _didn’t know_.” 

Her free arm is around him, rubbing his back. “Oliver, it’s okay,” she soothes. “We’re here, we’re safe.” 

“I should’ve–” 

“Oliver, don’t,” Felicity interrupts, that familiar thread of steel in her voice. “I would’ve gotten a message to you if I didn’t think it would endanger you or our son. This was _my_ choice.” 

A small hand touches his hair, patting a little awkwardly. Oliver straightens enough to turn his face, to meet his son’s gaze. Andy is frowning as he tries to calm his father. Then he lifts the stuffed turtle in his arms. “Want Freddy?” he offers, struggling with the R sound. 

Felicity kisses Andy’s cheek. “That’s a very sweet offer, baby. How about Aunt Thea fixes you a snack and then we can head home?” 

Andy nods enthusiastically, and Thea appears, reaching for him. Andy goes willingly, then turns to Oliver with a wave. ”Bye,” he says. 

“Bye, buddy,” Oliver manages. He watches Thea carry Andy to the kitchen, then turns back to Felicity. 

She’s watching him carefully. “Are you okay?” 

Oliver shakes his head a little, because-– “I should be asking you that.” 

“I’m fine, Oliver,” she answers immediately. She looks down for a moment and repeats his name softly, like she can’t quite believe he’s here. Her hands are trembling as she reaches for him, her palms landing flat on his biceps. “Are you–-?” 

“I’m back,” he says. And if he was unsure before, now he is certain all the way down to his bones that he will never willingly leave his family again. His _son_. “Felicity...” 

She blinks and a couple tears spill down her cheeks, but before he can react, she’s got her arms around him. Oliver hugs her tightly, probably too tightly, but he can’t make himself ease back. “Oliver,” she whispers against his neck. “Welcome home.” 

She kisses his throat and it’s all Oliver needs to lean back, tilt his head down, and kiss her properly. Two years, and he never forgot the feel of her, the taste of her. She’s kissing him back with the same fervor, the same _love_ he remembers. 

When she draws away, Felicity beams up at him. “I missed you, Oliver.” 

He’s still not sure he deserves any of this – not his sister or Felicity or his son. But he will never give it anything less than his best efforts. “I missed you,” he answers. “You have no idea.” 

Her smile softens, and she slips her hand down his arm to tangle her fingers with his. “Will you come home with me and Andy tonight?” 

_Home_. 

He can’t speak around the lump in his throat, so he simply nods. 

_-30-_


	15. Prompt Response: olicity, “You heard me. Take. It. Off.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [youguysimserious requested](http://machawicket.tumblr.com/post/118204467022/youguysimserious-requested-olicity-35-you): olicity, “You heard me. Take. It. Off.”

“You heard me,” Felicity repeated. “Take. It. Off.”

“Felicity,” Oliver started. “I–-”

“Did we,” she interrupted, “or did we not establish ground rules before we started this?”

“Yes,” he said, glowering a little, “but–-”

“And were those rules _clear_ to you?”

“Felicity–”

“Were they clear, Oliver?” Felicity repeated. Because the rules were crystal clear. Obviously. She’d made extra sure of that before agreeing to play.

He was full-on glaring at this point, arms crossed over his bare chest as he stubbornly refused to take off his pants.

“You know,” Diggle offered, “I’m fine if we go back to _non_ -strip poker, myself.” 

Felicity pulled the assortment of clothing she’d already won a little closer. “You two suck at poker,” she said. “And we _were_ playing non-strip poker until you guys lost all your money.”

“I didn’t lose all my money,” Oliver grit out. “You wouldn’t let me go to the ATM and–”

“The rules, Oliver,” she interrupted in a sing-song. “We agreed, the game ends when we run out of money –- or _things_ –- to bet.”

When Oliver shifted closer to her and dropped his voice, she knew she’d already won. “Felicity,” he said, “if you wanted to get me naked, you didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”

Diggle made a disgusted noise and tossed his cards on the table, while Felicity rolled her eyes at her boyfriend.

“If I wanted to get you naked, Oliver, all I’d have to do is snap my fingers,” she retorted. Oliver opened his mouth to argue, then snapped it shut again. Because duh. “I don’t want you naked –- _at the moment_ ,” she conceded, because Naked!Oliver was definitely on her to-do list for the night. She smirked at him. “I want you to admit that I beat the pants off of you.”

Diggle pushed his chair back and stood, leaving the shirt and tank top he’d lost behind as he headed for the door. “You two are ridiculous.”

-30-

I’m sorry. This whole thing is ridiculous. ;)


	16. Prompt Response: diggle/lyla "You fainted straight into my arms"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [dust2dust34 asked](http://machawicket.tumblr.com/post/118207189862/dyla-you-fainted-straight-into-my-arms-you): Dyla: “You fainted…straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

You fainted,” a familiar voice said, “straight into my arms.”

Diggle forced his eyes open, squinting in the searing desert sun to see – Lyla. She was dusty, but appeared uninjured. She had one hand on his chest and the covering their position with her handgun. Diggle knew from the irregular semi-automatic gunfire that the unit wasn’t under active attack.

He also could tell from the din around them that the grenade that he’d kicked away with some desperation had gotten some of his brothers in arms. Must’ve been what got him, too. 

The bitterness of failure swamped him, and he wanted to sit up, to stand and help. It was just that, from the waves of pain, he was pretty sure his leg was fucked.

And he didn’t faint. “I didn’t _faint_ ,” he managed. Though he wasn’t sure passing out from the pain was all that big of an improvement.

Lyla smiled down at him. “You know, if you wanted my attention, you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

That surprised a rusty laugh out of him, even as he grimaced. “Yeah, well, my momma always told me to make an impression.” He scanned as much of her body as he could see, which wasn’t much, since he was half in her lap. “You okay?”

Lyla nodded, calm and fearless as ever. “You are, too, Johnny,” she assured him. The hand on her chest patted him softly.

He gave her a disbelieving look –- because his leg felt pretty goddamn far from okay. He was sweating under the merciless sun, the grit of sand and dirt sticking to his skin, but all of that was drowned out by the throbbing pain radiating up his left leg.

“You got hit with shrapnel,” Lyla explained. “Hurts a lot, maybe cracked a bone, but your leg is intact.”

What a fucking world. He let out a gasping breath of relief. “Thanks.” 

She scanned their surroundings. “Don’t thank me -– Peachtree already looked you over, wrapped it for transit. Chopper’s coming for you and a couple others.”

“Lyla,” he said, reaching up to hold the hand on his chest. “Thank you.” It felt bigger than he meant it to, that simple apology. Fraternizing was frowned upon, especially in country, but there was just something about Lyla, something about the way she seemed to understand him. He knew he wouldn’t have been nearly this calm about his injuries if she hadn’t have been the one with her hand on his chest to keep him still.

But Lyla’s mouth twisted in what he recognized as guilt. “I didn’t do anything,” she said, her eyes fixed stubbornly on the horizon, her body tense.

He squeezed her hand, waited until she met his gaze. “You caught me,” he said. 

She relaxed just a little beneath him. “I’d do the same for any damsel in distress,” she said, the hint of a smile playing across her face.

Diggle huffed a pained laugh. He could hear the choppers approaching, but didn’t bother to look away from her. “Yeah, okay. Just don’t forget about me while I’m at Bagram.”

Lyla glanced at the makeshift landing zone, then squeezed his hand. “I couldn’t possibly, Johnny.”

-30-


	17. Prompt Response: Olicity, "YOU DID WHAT?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [darlinginmyway asked](http://machawicket.tumblr.com/post/118210985867/43-oliver-felicity-natch): #43, Oliver/Felicity, natch :)
> 
> Prompt: “YOU DID WHAT?”

“You did _what_?” Oliver shouts.

Felicity sighs. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

It takes Oliver and his stupid ninja-athlete body about two seconds to cross the loft’s huge open space and reach her side. To hover. Like the hovering hover-er he can be sometimes. “Felicity, what-–?”

“Ollie,” Thea interrupts, looking up from the first aid kit resting between the two women to glare at her brother. “Why don’t you drop the caveman bullshit for ten seconds. She’s _hurt_.”

“I’m okay,” Felicity protests, and she would be amused in most other situations by the mildly stunned look on Oliver’s face. But her hand actually _really_ hurts and no matter how she explains this, it’s going to end so, so badly. “Oliver, can you just trust me on this and let it go?”

His demeanor shifts immediately. “Hey, you know I trust you,” he says, and he’s using his quiet voice, now, the one he typically breaks out when she’s having a breakdown.

Which she is _totally not_ , for the record.

“You’re hurt,” Oliver says, running his fingers along the pinky of her right hand where it lays on the kitchen counter for Thea to treat. Her knuckles are bruised and a there are a couple cuts and she really, really hopes nothing’s broken. Oliver reaches out and tilts her chin up, pinning her with his eyes. “I need to know what happened.” Which is Oliver-speak for _I’m totally not letting it go and I will add it to my mountains of guilt until I arrow the responsible party_. More or less.

“I told you,” Felicity answers evenly, “I punched someone.” And she will not be doing _that_ again if she can help it. 

Oliver’s jaw ticks, but his tone is admirably calm when he says, “You didn’t tell me who. Or why.” When she simply stares back at him, Oliver lets out a frustrated breath. “You don’t just punch people, Felicity. Obviously something happened.”

Thea makes a disgruntled noise and Felicity whips her head around, pinning her sister-in-law with a sharp look. Which Thea promptly ignores, muttering, “Guy deserved it.”

Oliver and Felicity both snap, “Thea,” but she merely shrugs, continuing to rub antibiotic cream on Felicity’s damaged knuckles.

Felicity reaches for Oliver with her good hand. “The guy was a jerk, and I overreacted, and the last thing we need is for you to go all grrrr and arrow-y on him, okay?” This is the actual truth of what happened, just... the super-light-on-details version. 

Oliver looks skyward for a moment, no doubt searching for patience. “Will you please just–?”

“A paprazzo from the _Startlegram_ basically called her a gold-digging slut,” Thea announces, placing the last band-aid in Felicity’s hand with a flourish. “He was a douchebag, and your wife handled it by breaking his nose. Leave it _alone_ , Ollie.” She snaps the first aid kit shut and grins at them both. “I’m just gonna...” She hooks a thumb in the direction of her bedroom, then leaves them.

Felicity drops her head forward, fully expecting an explosion from her husband, who’s been overprotective of her for a lot longer than he’s been married to her.

“Felicity,” Oliver says, and is that–- does he sound _amused_? 

Warily, Felicity lifts her chin and studies his face. “What?” she asks.

“Is that what happened?”

“No,” Felicity answers stubbornly. When Oliver just watches her with that stubborn patience of his, she sighs. “He asked if I’d trapped you by getting pregnant, or if I was just a dime-store starfucker.” She frowns. “I remember him calling me a slut though,” she ponders. “Maybe that was after I punched him.”

“Did you really break his nose?”

Felicity tries really hard not to smile. She’s not the kind of person who relishes other people’s pain. She definitely has never intentionally harmed anyone before. She presses her lips together and nods.

And then Oliver is grinning at her. He lifts her injured hand and presses delicate kisses to the bandages. “I’m sorry you’re hurt, but I really wish I’d seen it.”

Felicity blinks. “Okay.” She watches him suspiciously. “I really thought you’d be madder about this.”

“Oh, I’m gonna kick that guy’s ass,” Oliver confirms, leaning in to press a kiss to her lips, “but first I’m gonna show my wife how much I appreciate her form.”

Felicity leans back and wrinkles her nose. “Did you just make a _really terrible_ boxing joke?”

Oliver shrugs, unrepentant. “Maybe.”

He ducks his head, kissing along her neck, and she hums her appreciation. “Maybe let’s not do that,” she mumbles.

“Do what?”

“Make jokes,” she says, looping her good arm around his neck to hold him close. “You’re really bad at it.”

-30-


	18. Prompt response: olicity, “Come over here and make me.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [tanyaslogic asked](http://machawicket.tumblr.com/post/118302895722/olicity-and-number-1): Olicity and number 1 :)
> 
> Prompt: “Come over here and make me.” S4 speculation and some S3 spoiler-y type stuff

“Oliver, would you _please_ stop with the sticks?” Felicity asks, but Diggle knows from the steel in her voice that it’s more of a command than a request.

“Come over here and make me.”

It’s really the strange, playful tone from Oliver –- _Oliver Queen_ -– that gets Diggle’s attention. Because Oliver has never been one for joking around, particularly not when Felicity orders him to do something.

Of course, Diggle’s been gone a while, keeping his distance from Oliver until the memory of what he did to Sara and Lyla isn’t quite so fresh. Dig is still resentful, though, because if Oliver just goddamned _asked for help_ , they could’ve put a better plan in place, one that wouldn’t–-

Nope. Diggle isn’t doing this. Lyla has asked him to try to make amends with Oliver; so has Felicity. Oliver himself has offered several somber, heartfelt apologies, most of them back when he’d just returned to Starling and Diggle was entirely too pissed to listen.

But he’d promised to try, so he’s here, in the new lair, which quite honestly resembles a cave much moreso than the old place in the foundry basement. This damp, artificially bright space has lower ceilings, and it feels colder, somehow. More Spartan, closer to the way things were when it was just Oliver and Dig before Felicity’s brightening presence joined them.

But even with all its faults, all its grimness, the new Arrow cave feels weirdly energetic. After only twenty minutes in the place, Diggle attributes that to the dynamic between Oliver and Felicity. Diggle can’t even concentrate on needed improvements to the dank space when Oliver and Felicity are gazing sunbeams at each other. 

He shouldn’t be so stunned. Diggle’s seen Felicity a bunch these past few months, and he knows that she and Oliver are together. He knows that Felicity is happy. He just... he hasn’t seen them _together_.

Until today.

And when he turns, he sees Oliver, sweaty and little out of breath on the mats, smiling at Felicity. It’s legitimately the widest, dopiest, happiest smile Diggle’s ever seen. For her part, Felicity’s got her arms crossed as she mock-glares at Oliver, toe tapping on the concrete floor just out of his reach. “You wish,” she shoots back. “I’m not going to _wrestle_ the escrima sticks out of your hands, Oliver.”

“But it’s so much fun every time you try,” Oliver drawls, lifting an eyebrow. He’s so obvious Diggle won’t credit that as anything more than a _single_ entendre. Didn’t this guy used to have game?

Felicity tilts her head in Diggle’s direction and lowers her voice to a harsh whisper. One that Diggle can still hear quite clearly, since he’s only about twenty feet away from these fools. “Diggle is here,” she hisses. “Quit it.”

Oliver’s grin widens, which Diggle hadn’t actually thought was possible. “Diggle knows we’re together. He knows we have sex, Felicity, there’s–-”

“Oliver!” she turns on her heel and crosses quickly to her computers, a vision of embarrassed irritation in a cute purple dress. 

Oliver looks completely unrepentant, and this light-hearted teasing -– Diggle’s known for a couple years that Oliver is utterly _gone_ for Felicity. The thing he’s never been sure of is whether Oliver had healed enough to really be with her, to let himself love her and _be loved_ by her.

It surprises Diggle to realize how relieved it makes him to see that Oliver’s honestly happy.

So maybe Lyla’s right -– maybe Diggle has mostly forgiven Oliver. _Maybe_.

He moves to Felicity’s side and rests his hand on her shoulder. She looks up in surprise, still flushed a little from embarrassment. Diggle tilts his head towards Oliver. “Want me to take care of him for you?”

Felicity –- bright, intuitive Felicity understands immediately that this is another step in Diggle’s process, and leans into his touch just a little bit. “ _Please_ , be my guest.”

He turns to find Oliver standing uncertainly on the mats, watching Diggle with undisguised hope and a hearty helping of self-recrimination. Diggle peels his shirt off and steps onto the mat, holding a hand out. “You up for this?” he asks.

Oliver tosses him a stick. “I am if you are.” And if it’s more apologetic and less boastful than his usual tone when he’s agreeing to spar, well, Dig’s certainly not going to complain.

They circle each other twice before Diggle realizes Oliver is not going to attack. With a roll of his eyes, Diggle closes the distance and begins. Ten seconds in, and he’s _pissed_. Oliver is letting him win -– not pressing his advantage, pulling his hits, exclusively working on defense, all of it. 

“Stop it, Oliver,” Diggle grunts, landing a vicious hit on Oliver’s thigh.

Oliver doesn’t even wince. But he _does_ move off of defense and onto offense.

Twenty seconds later, they’re sparring the way they used to. Oliver’s better –- faster and more polished. Diggle’s stronger, and when he lands hits, maybe he lets Oliver feel it a little more than he would have before.

Twenty minutes later, Diggle and Oliver are both breathing hard and bruised and sweaty. And smiling.

Diggle feels better, for some reason. He straightens from his fighting stance and holds out the stick. It takes a moment, but Oliver gives him a tentative smile and a quick tap of his stick.

Diggle nods and turns, stepping off the mat feeling like maybe this can work again. Maybe he can be a part of Team Arrow again. This changed team, with Roy gone and Laurel here and Thea trying and Lyla pitching in on occasion. 

But it’s still the three of them more times than not, and, man, he hadn’t realized how much he missed these two knuckleheads. Well, the knucklehead and the best thing that ever happened to him

Felicity appears by his side, offering a towel. She grins. “I would kiss you on the cheek, but you are really very sweaty.”

Diggle chuckles. “Thanks for the towel, Felicity.”

And then she yelps as Oliver wraps his arms around her from behind. “Oliver! Gross, you’re even sweatier than Dig!” She doesn’t look all that worried.

Oliver holds her close, leaning in to press a kiss to the side of her neck. “You don’t normally complain when I–-”

“Okay,” Diggle interjects loudly. “We’re going to have to discuss ground rules.”

Felicity is squirming a little in Oliver’s grasp, but she’s smiling, and Oliver looks like he never, ever wants to let her go. “Ground rules?” he echoes.

“I may be aware that you two are together and,” Diggle grimaces, “all that _that_ entails, but that doesn’t mean I need details. Or references. Or innuendo.”

Felicity opens her mouth to object, but Diggle waves her off.

“No _intentional_ innuendos,” Dig amends, quirking an eyebrow at her.

Felicity nods. “Acceptable.”

Oliver loosens his hold on her, moving to stand beside her, and holds out his hand for Dig. “Deal.” 

Diggle knows he could torture Oliver, draw this out, because the look on his face is regret warring with hope. Instead, Dig steps forward and gives Oliver’s hand a firm shake. “Deal,” he confirms.

And then Felicity claps her hands together. “The whole band’s back together!” she chirps.

Diggle shakes his head, amused, and turns to find his shirt. “I’m gonna head home, let you two lovebirds get it out of your system.”

Diggle has never in his _life_ regretted his excellent hearing until the moment Felicity follows that up with a very explicit reference to what she’d like Oliver to do when he’s in her system. 

“Oh, my God,” Felicity says. “I said that out loud. Dig–-”

“Nope,” Diggle interrupts. “Leaving. Right now. Let’s not speak of this again.”

-30-

Yeah, I don’t know what this is.


	19. Prompt Response: olicity, "if you keep looking at me that way, we're not going to make it to a bed"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Anonymous asked](http://machawicket.tumblr.com/post/118311240352/olicity-34): olicity & 34!
> 
> Prompt: “If you keep looking at me like that we won’t make it to a bed.” S3 speculation/spoilers included below. Some NSFW-adjacent implications.

Oliver has always liked fast cars.

It’s an indulgence he doesn’t really allow himself anymore, both because he’s not the same reckless kid as he once was and, well, most of the time, he doesn’t feel like he _deserves_ the fun of driving a Maserati.

Because hitting 120 with the wind in your face is exhilarating, whether it’s on a motorcycle or in a sports car. The bike he can at least justify for his nightly activities.

He hadn’t visited the off-site car garage since his return to Starling. Not until he had the idea to take Felicity down the coast, just the two of them, solidifying this new (not actually new at all) thing between them. When he’d walked into the place and flipped the lights on, he’d been overwhelmed by memories of his father, of the two of them choosing which cars to drive that week.

It was bittersweet, and Oliver had briefly reconsidered the entire idea. 

But he’d pushed on, selecting the steel grey Porsche, because he’d considered it too common to bother with as a snot-nosed teenager. Driving it down the coast with Felicity wasn’t quite a fresh start, but he still preferred to pick a car he’d never driven.

It shouldn’t surprise him anymore that Felicity makes everything better.

He almost didn’t know what to do with himself the first couple days of their trip -– happiness and contentment aren’t emotions Oliver is equipped to handle anymore, but Felicity is teaching him. In return, he’s brought them to a slightly creepy airplane graveyard out in the desert, a vast, asphalt-lined network of taxiways surrounded by aging, abandoned aircraft, so he can teach her to drive stick. 

He still doesn’t know how he could possibly ever deserve this moment with her – top down on the Porsche, the sun bouncing off of her hair, her lips pursed in concentration as she tries to figure out how to work the clutch. But he sure as hell is grateful to be here.

Felicity revs the engine, and eases off the clutch and the car jerks forward and stalls. Again. She lets out an annoyed huff of air, crosses her arms, and turns to glare at him. “This is a stupid car.”

Suddenly, Oliver can’t stop laughing. He’s got one hand pressed to his chest, over the seatbelt -– and probably where he’ll have a little bruising later -– and the other clutching his knee, and he just lets his head fall back against the headrest and laughs.

Because she’s _perfect_ in this moment. Every single thing he loves about her on display -– her stubbornness, her beauty, her amazing mind that understands the way the engine works far better than he ever has, and her blazing frustration that this knowledge hasn’t translated into immediate ability. 

“It’s not the car’s fault,” he manages, still grinning at her. “You’re killing the engine.”

She just narrows her eyes at him. “I told you only a crazy person would teach someone how to drive stick in a _Porsche_ , Oliver!”

“And,” he counters, leaning his elbow on the armrest between them just to get a little closer to her, “I told you wearing heels to learn how to drive a stick would make things much more difficult.”

“Well,” she snarks back, “if I’d known we were going to drive into the middle of the desert to visit dearly departed _airplanes_ , I could’ve dressed appropriately.”

God, he just loves her. Loves the way she will go toe-to-toe with him, regardless of the topic. “What is appropriate clothing for an airplane graveyard?” he wonders.

“Oh, would you just–” She unfastens her seatbelt and opens the door, but Oliver reaches across and stops her with a hand on her arm.

“Hey, hey, wait. You’ve almost got it,” he says. “Really. It’s only first gear that’s difficult.”

She relents, but gives him a look that tells him she is still displeased. “Oh, well, if it’s only _the gear you have to go through to reach any other gear_ , then that’s fine.”

He presses his lips together, but can’t stop himself from smiling, and then from leaning over to kiss the scowl off of her face. She’s not mad, just frustrated, and she melts into the kiss almost immediately.

Oliver’s got his hand in her hair and he’s half-hanging over the console into her personal space when she pulls back, flushed and grinning. “If this is your form of incentives, yes, A+,” she says.

He kisses her again, then one more time, just for good measure. “You can do this, Felicity. It’s a feel thing.”

Her smile gets a hell of a lot more knowing as she lets his words hang in the air between them. “A feel thing,” she repeats slowly. “Those are my favorite kinds of things.”

Oliver is half-hard already, just from the tone of her voice, but he tries to pull back a little. “Felicity–”

“What do I get as a reward when I successfully,” she pauses, arching an eyebrow, “pop the clutch.”

And goddamn, how did the tables turn so fucking fast? 

“If you keep looking at me like that we won’t make it to a bed,” he warns her, his voice low and more than a little desperate. He hasn’t even _touched_ her yet. It’s ridiculous.

Felicity shifts a little in the seat, smirking. “Is that a promise?”

Oliver glances around – they’re in the middle of the fucking desert with, as far as he can tell, no one around for miles and miles. And he wants her. Always. But especially right now, with her pink lips teasing him and those wide blue eyes offering him bliss.

But–- “Felicity..." He gives the cramped quarters of the Porsche a pained look. “I don’t think–”

“I’ve never had sex _on_ a car, Oliver,” Felicity interrupts, her voice as dry and uninterested as if she’s simply rattling off a perp’s address to him, so it takes a moment for her meaning to land.

Oliver blinks.

“Yes, okay,” he says, and he’s got the door open and is trying to move before he remembers –- seatbelt, right -– and now it’s Felicity laughing helplessly, her head tilted back against the headrest.

And Oliver just grins and very pointedly unfastens his seatbelt.

-30-

[Airplane graveyards](http://www.bbc.com/future/story/20140918-secrets-of-the-aircraft-boneyards), y’all. SO FREAKY.


	20. Prompt Response: olicity, “You need to wake up because I can’t do this without you.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Anonymous asked](http://machawicket.tumblr.com/post/118838001067/if-youre-still-taking-them-olicity-you-need-to): if you're still taking them: Olicity “You need to wake up because I can’t do this without you.”
> 
> Distracting myself from finale stress with prompts!

“You need to wake up,” orders a familiar voice, somewhat petulantly, “because I can’t do this without you.”

Oliver snaps into consciousness the way he always does -– from the deep, steady stillness of sleep to full alertness in a moment –- and fixes his gaze on Felicity. She’s standing beside the bed wearing blue panties and a thin white tank top that says FEMINIST BADASS in purple lettering, one knee propped up on the mattress as she awaits his response. It’s early enough that the light is still soft as it streams through the windows, and the sappier parts of him want to soak in the image of her –- the sunshine glinting off of her lopsided, messy ponytail, and the faint impression of a wrinkled pillowcase just visible near her cheekbone.

She’s gorgeous.

“What are we talking about?” Oliver asks, his voice still rough with sleep. He pushes himself up to a seated position and the blue plaid sheets pool in his lap. He leans his weight back on one arm and rubs his free hand across his face.

“Omelettes,” Felicity answers, a hint of grumpiness in her voice.

Oliver tries not to smile, but it’s difficult. She’s _adorable_ when she’s like this –- sleep-disheveled and pouting over something minor. He learned quickly that mornings and Felicity do not get along terribly well; things that she would brush off with barely a notice under any other circumstance leave her grumbling and cranky before she’s caffeinated. “No coffee yet?” he guesses.

She narrows her eyes at him. “It’s brewing now.”

Which means she’d _tried_ to make omelettes before her first cup of coffee. She’s a pretty bad cook even _after_ a triple latte, so Oliver has a feeling he knows how this story ends. Smirking, he quirks an eyebrow and inhales deeply. “How many eggs have you ruin-–?”

“Oh, stuff it,” she interrupts, and he is laughing before he knows it. 

He finds the miffed-for-little-to-no-reason side of Felicity to be an absolute delight. She’s normally _so_ laser-focused, _so_ smart and adaptable and able to process and react to a thousand things at once that it amazes him to watch the simplest things leave her puzzled and grumpy when she’s half-asleep and decaffeinated. Three weeks earlier, she’d sat cross-legged on the floor of her closet, head in her hands, because she hadn’t set out the shoes for that day’s outfit the night before and could no longer remember what decision she’d made. 

Reaching out, he loops his free hand around her hips and pulls her forward onto the bed. She comes willingly, but settles onto her knees beside him. She’s still pouting. 

“Laugh away,” she grumbles. “See if I bring you breakfast in bed ever again.”

He presses his lips together to contain his smile. “You’ve never brought me–-”

“I was trying to!” she interrupts, and he finally puts it all together. A year ago today, he’d taken her out for Italian, and then everything went to hell. He’s not entirely sure why she decided to commemorate _that_ with breakfast in bed, but he appreciates the thought.

“Felicity,” he says, leaning in to press soft kisses along the curve of her shoulder. “You’re an excellent baker.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” she answers, even as she tilts her head to grant him better access to her neck. She’s softening against him, beginning to lean toward him. His hand slips beneath the hem of her shirt and he presses his palm against her warm skin.

“It’s not flattery,” he counters. “The cupcakes last weekend were amazing.”

“And yet I can’t even make a damn omelette,” she grumbles, sitting back a bit to cross her arms beneath her breasts. “I am probably an _actual_ genius, and my reading comprehension skills are top notch. Why do recipes always beat me?”

He’s grinning lazily at her. “You have many top-notch skills,” he teases, letting his hand trail down her ribcage and settle on her hip, his fingers urging her closer.

“Are you really trying to have sex with me right now?” she demands, eyebrows high with irritation. “I’m _hungry_.”

Oliver moves quickly, pushing up onto his knees even as he uses her hips to ease her onto her back. “You’re _cranky_ ,” he says, shifting himself over her.

She’s still glaring a little, but there’s no heat behind it. Then her arms come around him anyway, and he knows it’s just a matter of time. She shrugs helplessly. “There’s no reason in the world for my inability to cook.”

He’s honestly not sure he’d even classify making an omelette as _cooking_ , but that is a thought best not shared. So he leans closer and kisses her, soft and slow, letting some of his weight settle on top of her. “You bake, I’ll cook,” he murmurs, letting his lips drift along her jawbone and down to the hollow of her throat. “That’s what partners do.”

Felicity wraps one leg around his hip, her hands trailing down his back. “Partners sex each other out of irrational bad moods?” she asks.

He huffs a laugh against her collarbone, then lifts his head to catch her eye. “Partners play to their strengths so they can get the job done.”

“The job, huh?” She’s fighting not to smile now. “Just to be clear, is the job in this example _orgasms_ or _breakfast_?”

Oliver beams down at her. “Both,” he says. “Orgasms, then breakfast.”

She’s smiling now, dimples on full display, her eyes bright with happiness, and he just loves her so fucking much. And because she knows him so well, she can read what he’s thinking and softens under his gaze, her hands coming up to frame his face as she nods slowly. “Well, then, you’d best get to work, Queen.”

He kisses her quickly, then shifts a little lower. “With pleasure,” he says, and brings his mouth to her skin.

-30-


	21. Prompt Response: olicity, Stranded in an airport waiting for a delayed flight AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [mersayseh asked](http://machawicket.tumblr.com/post/118886792317/stranded-in-an-airport-waiting-for-a-delayed): Stranded in an airport waiting for a delayed flight. "So, looks like we're going to be here a while. Do you mind if I...?" He gestured to the seat next to her, and Felicity could only stare blankly at him, mouth slightly agape. Because good lord, did someone order a Greek god?
> 
> Okay, so, yeah, it’s been a couple weeks since these AU prompts, but I’m trying! Have more fluff, y’all! We can get through these last few hours together. :)

“So it looks like we’re going to be here awhile,” says a definitely masculine voice, from somewhere above Felicity’s head.

It’s true –- the passengers waiting to fly to Hawaii have been told that their actual plane is currently snowed into Boston. Which is... far. Which means hours and hours and hours of sitting here in a marginally comfortable airport lounge, trying not to die of boredom. 

And she’s not unfriendly, but basically the last thing she wants to do right now is talk to some random guy, because there’s really nowhere to escape in this packed-with-cranky-passengers lounge. Biting back a dramatic sigh of exasperation –- because she may be frustrated, but she’s not _rude_ -– Felicity glances up from her tablet and freezes.

The owner of said masculine voice –- a criminally attractive man with a small, weirdly insincere half-smile –- gestures to the seat next to her and says, “Do you mind if I...?”

Felicity can only stare blankly up at him, mouth agape. Because, _good lord_ , did someone order a Greek God? Seriously, he is all dazzling blue eyes and ridiculous jawlines and sexy-as-hell scruff, and that’s _before_ she lets her gaze shift quickly down his torso. Is it possible to burst into flames just from the sight of an incredibly attractive man in a well-fitted black leather jacket and jeans? She’s pretty sure it is, especially if he keeps looking at her like that, all focused and now that fake smile has been replaced with something that looks much more real, like he is genuinely amused by her for some reason.

It takes her a moment to realize he’s _still standing there waiting for her to respond_ , because he’d asked her a question. Because he wants to sit in the seat currently occupied by her carry-on bag.

The seat right beside her. For however long they’re stuck in the airport waiting for their plane to arrive from snowy Boston. Okay. Sure. Sounds great.

Only... she hasn’t moved yet. Shit. She feels the blush burning in her cheeks and takes a sharp, panicky breath.

“Right!” she yelps, jumping into action. 

So of _course_ when she reaches for her carry-on bag, she is so flustered by his... _everything_... that she launches her tablet into motion by accident. And she can see what’s about to happen – the tablet will slip off of her knees and hit the ground at a screen-cracking, tablet-wrecking angle and she will have to spend the remainder of this interminable delay _plus_ the six-hour flight with nothing to read other than shitty magazines or an airport-bookstore-worthy mystery novel.

But it turns out that the guy with the stupidly attractive face _also_ has quick reflexes –- and good hands? Is that a thing she should be noticing right now? Regardless, he manages to avert the impending technological crisis by steadying the tablet against her leg. 

Against her thigh, actually, which –- because of the combination of her skirt and crossed legs –- is bare beneath his warm fingers.

“Got it,” he says, unnecessarily. Because she’s pretty sure she could never, ever miss the part where _his hand is on her thigh_ right now. It’s more action than she’s gotten in months. Which is... absolutely not something she should be thinking about right now. He’s just a cranky traveler trying to sit down for a while. And then also rescuing her tablet.

“Thanks!” she manages, her voice weirdly high and a little thready. She puts one shaky hand down on the tablet to anchor it in place and he pulls his hand away. “Um, here,” she adds, yanking her carry-on from the seat beside her and dumping it beside her feet. “You can–- I mean obviously you should sit.” She can feel the torrent of words clamoring to be let out –- clarifications and tangents about how she doesn’t _want_ him to sit there in any kind of weird way, but then that sounds unfriendly, and she doesn’t _not want_ him to sit either. People should be free to sit wherever they want –- she is all for seat egalitarianism. _Vive la Revolution_ and all of that. 

Somehow she clamps her mouth shut before she ends up shouting “ _Liberte, egalite, fraternite!_ ” or something, turning her gaze determinedly back to her tablet. Though she has no idea what she was reading before the hot guy with his blinding, brain-bendingly _stupid face_ sauntered into her view.

Not that she saw him moving, actually -– he just kind of appeared –- but he just looks like a guy who would saunter. And... she’s thinking entirely too much about this poor stranger who’s said, like, five words to her and only out of necessity. 

Hot Guy murmurs “Thanks,” and folds himself into the seat beside her, his –- well, hello, _tanned and muscular_ -– forearm settling on the armrest between them. His shoulder is so close to hers that she swears she can feel his body heat. 

It takes entirely too long for Felicity to realize she’s staring at the play of muscles in his arm like she’s never seen a Greek God in person before.

Which, yes, okay, to be fair, she _hasn’t_. But still. She should maybe try to get a tighter grip on her horses.

“Are you headed to Hawaii?”

Felicity blinks at her tablet, then straightens and turns her face towards Hot Guy, who is – just a lot closer than she expected, and his eyes are just unfair. “Um...” She blinks. “Hawaii, yes. That’s me. I mean, that’s where I’m going.”

He grins at her, and, God, she has the most absurd urge to pinch her arm. Because people don’t just _look_ like that in real life. “Me, too,” he says. “Ever been before?”

“Nope,” she answers. “You?”

“A few times,” he says. He pauses, watching her for a moment, then holds his hand out. “Oliver Queen.”

“Oh,” Felicity answers, stupidly. Then she reaches over to shake his hand –- awkwardly, because it’s her and also they are sitting side by side –- and squeezes, ignoring the obvious strength in his grip. “Felicity,” she says, then adds, “Smoak,” like some kind of weirdo.

This is why she doesn’t often end up talking to random strangers. Her social skills are usually drowned out by sheer awkwardness.

For whatever reason, Hot Guy –- _Oliver_ -– doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he spends the entire two-and-a-half hour delay chatting with her about all kinds of things. Which is weird but fun, even if she doesn’t fully understand the looks she’s getting from a group of girls two rows of chairs over. Sure, Oliver is _incredibly_ handsome, but they’re acting like he’s Tom Cruise.

Or someone less... cult-y. Like Chris Evans. Or Chris Pratt. Or Chris Hemsworth. One of the Hot Marvel Chrises, at any rate.

Whatever. It’s weird, but Oliver barely even notices, even when the tiny brunette breaks from the group to move closer and is _clearly_ taking a cellphone picture of Oliver.

Felicity opens her mouth to comment, but Oliver offers to go buy them coffee and she is _never_ one to refuse caffeine. He’s gone for nearly fifteen minutes, and she’s half-convinced the entire thing has been some sort of lucid dreaming incident. 

When he returns, he holds the cup out to her with a flourish, and she is happy about the coffee and even _more_ happy not to be losing her mind.

“Thanks,” she says, hiding her smile behind the lid.

Over the next couple hours, she learns that he has a sister he adores, a job that he finds incredibly challenging but worth the sacrifice, and a strange, almost _sorrowful_ sense of responsibility for the people in his life. He learns that she grew up in Vegas and chose MIT almost exclusively for the complete 180 in terms of culture and weather and _everything_. He asks her a bunch of questions about her job, and doesn’t even seem bored when he blinks blankly in reaction to her House Targaryen reference and then she prattles on about Westeros for like twenty minutes.

In fact, he grins as she talks, then downloads the first book onto his tablet for the flight.

When the airline finally, _finally_ announces that their flight is ready to board, Felicity is... well, she’s disappointed.

Because Oliver is charming and handsome and she wouldn’t hate talking to him more on the plane. But she’s seen his boarding pass and he is seat 1A, which is... a little too on the nose. She’ll be back in 36F with the rest of he peasantry. Oh, well.

When she stands and loops her bag over her shoulder, Oliver stops her with a hand on her forearm. “Felicity, would it–- I mean, this might sound a little strange, but I’ve enjoyed talking to you.”

She can’t help the smirk on her face, because that almost sounded like something she would say. “No, you’re right –- it’s definitely strange that you’ve enjoyed talking to me.”

He’s shaking his head, eyes a little wide. “That’s not strange,” he protests immediately. “That’s not what I meant. I–- Would you-– Is it okay if I upgrade your seat?”

Felicity stares at him for a moment, because – what? “ _What_?” she says, gracelessly.

Oliver shifts his weight a little, and she thinks maybe – is he _nervous_? “My assistant was supposed to be traveling with me, but she’s not, which means there’s a first class seat that’ll be empty. So,” he takes a breath and lets it out, then starts to smile, “would it be strange for you if I upgraded your seat so that we can continue our conversation, which I enjoyed. A lot.”

It takes her a moment to process, but she already knows she’s kind of beaming at him. “Oh. That’s not strange. I mean, it’s incredibly nice of you, and you really don’t have to-–”

“I’d like to,” he interrupts. “So that’s a yes?”

She nods, and she knows she’s grinning stupidly at him but can’t make herself stop. “Yes.”

Six hours later, they emerge into the warm, tropical Hawaiian air, and Felicity says yes again, this time to dinner the next night. A year later, Oliver and Felicity are in Maui again, and she says yes to a much bigger question.

-30-

HAHAHAHA, SO MUCH FLUFF.


	22. Prompt Response:  olicity, basorexia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [youguysimserious asked](http://machawicket.tumblr.com/post/118976710352/basorexia-olicity): basorexia, Olicity
> 
> Basorexia – A strong urge to kiss someone. Digging up old prompts to write today because OUR SHIP IS CANON, BITCHES. ;)

The first thing she learns on their impromptu road trip is that Oliver is going to be touching her _a lot_.

Even before they were together, he’d sometimes placed a weighty hand on her shoulder, or perhaps squeezed her hand In rare times of high stress, he’d even cup her cheek and _gaze_ at her. So, sure, there’d been some hints that he’d be a toucher.

And, yes, during their night together in Nanda Parbat, he’d been reluctant to let go of her, to let her move from his grasp, but she’d kind of chalked that up to the sheer, insane desperation of their circumstances.

(Now, looking back with full knowledge of his _really stupid, self-sacrificing plan_ , his clinginess that night makes even more sense. And to think he was going to give her that one night of, well, _giving it to her_ [really, really thoroughly and really, really well] and then _crash a plane_ , leaving her alone for the rest of her life, comparing any other man she ever met to her own personal hero, who’d died saving thousands? Yeah, _that’s_ fair. And something they’re going to have a loud conversation about. Soon.)

Whatever –- the point is that Felicity just... somehow didn’t expect that Oliver would be the more touchy-feely of the two of them. But, oh, he is. And she is not complaining.

Oliver drives with his hand tangled in hers (until he needs to shift); when she’s driving, he leaves a hand on her thigh.

As soon as they park, he leans over to kiss her. Every time. Often it gets a little out of control. Because, yeah, they’re _excellent_ at kissing each other.

Once they break apart to get out of the car, he’s beside her immediately, with a hand on her back, or an arm around her shoulders to tug her closer. And he’s coordinated enough to press the occasional kiss to her temple without breaking stride. Or bumping their heads together. One of the perks of dating a (retired) superhero, apparently.

He punctuates every couple of steps with a kiss, like he can’t even bear not kissing her. Which, yes, she can totally related to, because –- _excellent at kissing each other_.

He sits beside her at restaurants, whether he needs to drag a chair closer, or sit on the same side of a booth. She uses the opportunity to help herself to his fries, and sometime to bites of his steak, or lasagna, or whatever. Each time she steals his food, he kisses her. So, really, she’s just going to steal his food more, because it’s not her fault he doesn’t understand incentives.

Felicity is an affectionate person –- probably she’d touched him more during the Summer of Unbearable Sexual Tension than he’s touching her now –- but there’s an undercurrent of... _something_ beneath the affection. It’s not fear –- not quite. It’s just... something unsettled in Oliver.

It takes her a few days to figure it out.

Well, okay, it takes her a few days to get her own jitters and latent disbelief handled. Because she’s had two years of crushing on him, seemingly in that unrequited, friends-only kind of way, and then a year of knowing in her soul that he loves her and watching him continue to walk away.

So, yes, he chose her. He wants to be with her. That is very clear to her. 

Intellectually.

It’s the _staying chosen_ part that she struggles to believe. To accept.

So who can blame her if it takes slow, leisurely nights of passion; it takes whispered words of love and lust and affection and humor and happiness; it takes pulling his sweaty body to hers when he jolts awake from a nightmare and soothing him back to sleep; it takes writing long, rambling emails to Diggle, trying to explain what this trip is to her; it takes Oliver getting tipsy on three glasses of Scotch and telling her a confusing story about having seen her before he saw her. Or something. It was a little jumbled, a lot slurred, and he was far too distracted by the shine of her hair to explain himself.

But after a few days, she’s _here_ , she’s living this. She _knows_ this is true -– she and Oliver are in love. (Which, yes, okay, she already knew.) She and Oliver are excellent at sexing each other. (Yup, also knew that -– but, God, the multiple rounds of confirmation are not something she’ll ever complain about.) 

She and Oliver are _together_.

That right there. That’s the one that gets her. 

And once she wraps her head around it, once she lets herself _believe_ > it, she realizes that’s what he’s struggling with, too. He was a thoughtless, selfish kid who went through a crucible that burned away any self-indulgence he ever had, and left him scarred and damaged and _lonely_. Now that he’s had time to recover a little, to live in the world with people who love him as much as he loves them, to see that the worst possible thing _doesn’t_ always happen -– well, it’s an adjustment.

Felicity knows this, and she understands his uncertainly, probably more than he does. He’s never been happy like this. He’s never been a grown, responsible man – a man with demons, but a _good_ man –- and allowed himself to just... _be_ himself. He’s never let himself feel _worthy_ of being himself, of seeking happiness.

They’re standing along a crude wooden fence, their forearms leaning on the top rail, shoulders touching, and looking out over the ruins left behind by the Mount St. Helens volcanic eruption in the early 80s. The landscape is beautiful now, the plants recovered and blooming in the late spring sunshine, but there are still scars in the ground where the lava burned everything away.

It’s gorgeous and sad and hopeful all at once, and when she looks up, Oliver has tears standing in his eyes as he stares out to the horizon.

She can guess why, but doesn’t want to push him to talk if he’s not ready. Instead, she tilts her head, laying her cheek against his shoulder to offer her silent comfort. He sniffles, then presses a kiss to the top of her head.

“This is real,” he says, so quietly she almost misses it. 

“It is,” she confirms, tucking her arms around his. “We’re here, we’re together, and we’re healing.” She adds that last part because it’s important. She loves this man unconditionally, which does _not_ mean she’s okay with his choices when his choices are _wrong_. Or when his choices break her trust, or John’s, or Thea’s, or Laurel’s. 

Felicity’s still healing from Oliver’s choices as al Sah-him, and she needs him to know that. She’s got a few scars of her own, both recent and long-standing. But she also needs him to know that she’s not ever going to walk away from him.

He turns to face her fully, squinting a little in the bright sunshine. He ducks his chin to kiss her chastely. “It’s hard,” he murmurs, “really believing it.”

Felicity loops her arms around his neck and holds his gaze. “I know. This,” she says, squeezing his neck just a bit for emphasis, “has been a long time coming. I thought we might not ever get here, if we’re being honest.”

Oliver ducks his chin, his gaze sliding away from hers. “I know. I’m sorry that–-”

“Nope,” she interrupts, cupping his cheek and gently turning his face back towards her. “No apologizing for the past.” She frowns, reconsidering. “Well, no, I take that back –- because we need to have a conversation about how your problem-solving skills always seem to focus on the _and-then-Oliver-dies_ option instead of other, perfectly good, _non-lethal_ options. Also, I’m way smarter than you, so probably you should always get at least a sanity check from me when you’re plotting things.”

Despite the subject matter, he’s grinning down at her. “Oh, yeah?”

“ _Definitely_ ,” she answers, letting herself smile back. “Like _way_ smarter. I’m pretty sure my mom still has my SATs if you’re curious.”

He’s laughing when he kisses her this time, and she doesn’t even care that their teeth clank together, because he’s _laughing_ , and it’s such a relief after so much sadness. 

“I am thoroughly convinced of your intellect, Felicity,” he says, and he’s giving her that bright, sunshine-y, _blinding_ smile of his that she’s seeing more and more of since they left Starling. “And you’re beautiful when you’re bragging.”

She gives him an exaggerated wink. “It’s not bragging if it’s true.” He laughs again, and she gives herself a mental fist pump. She lets the moment settle, lets the amusement melt into low-level happiness, and then says, “If you’re choosing this life, if you’re choosing me as part of your life as–-”

“The most important part of it,” he corrects, leaning his forehead against hers.

Felicity swallows against the sudden threat of tears. “Right,” she says, her voice husky, “that. Then there’s no apologizing for the road it took us to get here. If we’d tried this and failed, Oliver, I don’t think...” This time she can’t talk past the lump in her throat.

“I know,” he says, one palm soothing along her spine. “I wouldn’t have survived that, either, Felicity. We’re going to make this work.” He kisses her again, and she meets him eagerly, her fingers digging into his biceps to hold him close.

“We’re going to make this work,” she repeats, pulling back when the excited voices of a family approaching this lookout breaks through the normal Oliver-related haze of lust. She grins up at him. “Believe it.”

Oliver nods once, running his hands down her arms until he can tangle their fingers together. “I’m doing my best.”

Felicity squeezes his hands in hers. “That will always be enough, Oliver.”

-30-

Yeaaaaah, SCHMOOOOOOOPY!


	23. #OlicitySpotting:  Dirty Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I kind of blame effie214 for this a little bit? :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: I've moved this story out to be part of a different collection, [On the Outside Looking In](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3983473/chapters/8941960), which is specific to this third-party POV on our lovely couple's summer road trip kind of story. Sorry for the confusion/duplication!

Bill has worked as an usher for the field boxes at Fenway for more than forty years, and he’s seen pretty much everything in that time – from Bucky Fucking Dent to Big Papi, and the ebb and flow of fans to match.

Fenway is never dead when there’s a home game, even in mid-August when the Sox are 6 games under .500 and firmly trapped in the cellar. But the crowds this summer are a little less full, a little less passionate, and maybe a little more about singing  _Sweet Caroline_. The sing-a-long is no longer new enough for Bill to complain about, but he’s been here three times as long as they’ve been singing it in the middle of the eighth, so he still hasn’t accepted it.

But he can’t deny that it makes the fans happy.

There are always first-timers, even for a Tuesday night game against a mediocre opponent when it’s 80 and muggy out. So Bill stands at the top of the ramp, watching people’s faces light up as the Green Monster comes into view, waiting for someone to need help to locate their seats. 

He’s just finished greeting an enthusiastic young girl carrying a bright blue glove and a Wally the mascot doll, when he straightens to find a tiny, smiling blonde in a traditional “B” cap and a too-large home jersey standing before him.

“Hi!” she says, glancing at his nametag. “Bill, could you help us find our _amazing_  seats?”

Bill accepts the ticket she holds out and glances at the tall, broad-shouldered man beside her. He’s wearing a Starling cap and a knowing smirk as his girlfriend elbows him. “First time to Fenway?” Bill asks, scanning the ticket quickly. Good seats, just seven rows back from the field behind the Sox on-deck circle. He motions them along the walkway for two sections, and starts down the narrow aisle towards their seats.

“I went to college in Boston,” the blonde answers as she follows. 

Bill stops at their row and hands the ticket back, pausing to wipe away the few remaining raindrops from a late-afternoon shower from the plastic seats. 

When he turns to face them, the tiny blonde grins at him and hooks a thumb over her shoulder at her boyfriend. “He’s a virgin, though.” The other man huffs a laugh, and she practically twinkles up at him. “Probably the only time I’ll ever get to say  _that_.” 

“Hey,” the guy protests, but he doesn’t sound even a little bit offended. For such a big, gruff looking guy, he sure stares at his girlfriend like she’s got him wrapped around her little finger.

Bill shakes his head a bit, missing his beloved Adrianna with that dull, heavy ache that never really goes away. He looks back and forth between the two of them, and years and years spent watching people interact has him guessing, “Honeymoon?” Because she leans into him for no reason, and he slings an arm around her in response even though it’s hotter than the inside of an oven. Plus neither one of ‘em has paid the milling crowds jostling past them much attention at all, wrapped up as they are in each other.

But the blonde laughs at his question, a bright, joyful sound, and says, “God, no.” Then she looks at Bill and sobers quickly. “Oh, that probably sounded awful, but I mean -– no, we’re not, because  _this_ one-–” She tilts her head to the side. “Long story. Anyway. Nope. Just on vacation. A nice, long,  _really_ overdue vacation.” She glances up at her boyfriend and her whole expression softens. “Together.”

“Plus,” the boyfriend adds, and he’s only got eyes for her, “I’ll take you somewhere better for our honeymoon.”

Bill feels his eyebrows raising as he watches, because the blonde doesn’t react to that at all how he’s expecting. Instead of getting all sappy, she leans away from him and snacks his bicep. “How  _dare_  you insult Fenway!” She flings an arm out to encompass the green fields below, nearly knocking the beer out of a passerby’s hand. “Sorry!” she calls out, then returns to her argument, moving past Bill into their row. “Fenway is historic! It’s beautiful, and it’s so  _green,_ which  _you_ should appreciate.”

Her boyfriend watches her with an expression Bill remembers from his own wedding photos. 

Bill waves the other man into their row, and moves one stair back the way he came before turning to offer, “Want me to take a picture of the two of you?” It’s basically a requirement – posing with your back to the Monster, players in bright white uniforms warming up on the green field behind you.

The boyfriend nods his thanks, digging his phone out of his jeans pocket and thumbing to the correct app.

Meanwhile, the blonde woman has frozen where she stands, staring up at her boyfriend. “Wait…” she says, “You… You didn’t just-–”

Bill snaps a picture while they’re not even paying attention –- they’re half-turned towards each other with the Green Monster in the background, everything lit with the late, late afternoon glow. It’s a cute picture, Bill thinks -– her brow is furrowed in confusion, and he looks a little nervous, but they’re both so very focused on each other.

“I’m not proposing to you in a ballpark, Felicity,” he says, grinning down at his girlfriend.

Felicity, apparently. Bill decides her name is pretty fitting. 

He snaps another picture as Felicity’s boyfriend leans in a little closer, presses a quick kiss to her lips. Then he straightens and his whole face lights up with mischievous joy when he adds, “But I  _will_  propose to you.”

Felicity’s mouth drops open for a moment, and then the young nearly-engaged couple stand there, grinning at each other like fools in love. Bill takes another picture before they seem to remember his presence. And his offer.

“Oh!” Felicity says, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. “Sorry, Bill. Thanks so much.”

They lean closer to each other and smile for the camera, but Bill can already tell the pictures he took earlier are better. The pictures that capture the way they can’t keep from looking at each other – those will be the ones they save for years and years. He’s got a similar picture of him and Adrianna at home on the table beside his reading chair – she’s sitting on his lap and grinning down at him, and he’s gazing up at her.  _The look of love_ , their youngest daughter calls it.

Whatever it is, Felicity and her soon-to-be-fiance have it. So Bill hands the phone back and pauses, “Congratulations,” he says.

Felicity flushes again, “Oh, but we haven’t–”

“You will,” Bill interrupts, touching his fingertips to the brim of his cap.

Beside Felicity, her boyfriend nods once. “We will. Thanks.”

-30-

Yeah, I don’t know. ::shrug::


	24. Prompt Response: olicity "are you the bug guy?" au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For carogables, who brought me a cupcake. :)

“Are you the bug guy?” Felicity demands, pushing herself up off of the welcome mat and swiping her tablet to lock it. “Because they said you’d be here like an hour ago and–”  And holy  _crap,_ are bug guys supposed to be this hot? Because bugs are really, really gross, so by the transitive property of, well…  _possibly_ faulty logic, people whose jobs it is to interact with bugs – or, actually, to _ruthlessly slaughter_  bugs – should also be gross?

Which, upon further reflection, makes no sense. But even without the assumption that the bug guy should be gross, the man standing in front of her with what looks like the tiniest bit of amusement on his face? Is the  _exact opposite_  of gross. “You’re late,” she finishes. Lamely.

But the hot bug guy – Felicity frowns. Because no. Not  _hot bugs_. A  _hot guy_. 

So the incredibly hot guy who is  _also_ (hopefully?) the bug guys stops a couple feet from her and quirks one eyebrow just a bit. “Pest control,” he says, lifting the case in his hand just slightly.

“Oh, thank God,” Felicity says. She hooks a thumb at her front door. “It’s like the spider-pocalypse in there right now, and I just–” She stops, shuddering. “Ugh. I can’t.”

He smiles just a little bit at that. “Spider-pocalypse?”

“ _They’re taking over my apartment_ ,” she explains, her voice going a little high with spider-induced panic. “There was one on the bathroom ceiling the last week or so, which wasn’t  _too_  bad, because we came to kind of an understanding, you know?”

The hot guy blinks. “You had an understanding with a spider.”

Felicity nods emphatically. “He stays out of my reach and I don’t kill him,” she says. Then she winces, remembering the morning she washed her hair while basically plastered against the shower curtain because the spider was a couple inches down the wall and she needs a minimum safe distance of like five feet at all times. “Or run away screaming. Could go either way, really.”

“So your spider friend broke–”

“He’s  _not_  my friend,” Felicity interrupts, shuddering again at the very thought. “At  _best_  we’re frenemies.”

The hot guy is no longer even trying to pretend he’s not amused by her. “Okay,” he agrees easily. “I take it your spider  _frenemy_  broke your understanding today?”

Felicity shivers again, hugging her tablet for comfort. “He has  _friends_. Or like a whole  _army of spiders_  that are inside my apartment.  _Skittering around_  on all of their  _skittery legs_  being…”

“Skitterish?” he offers.

“Yes!” Felicity nods. A lot. Emphatically. “ _Skitterish_. Ugh, they’re terrifying.”

He huffs what sounds suspiciously like a laugh. She narrows her eyes, but he speaks before she can accuse him of mocking her terror. “Would you like me to spray the apartment?”

“Absolutely.” Felicity turns and opens the door, gesturing that he should go in first. He takes two steps into her apartment and turns back to her. But she is quite happy to stay outside where it’s safe.

Well. That’s not true. Spiders live outside, too. They should  _only_ live outside, actually. Inside should be a  _spider-free zone_. Ugh. 

“Miss?”

“Felicity,” she corrects, forcing herself to focus on the situation. Or maybe the hot guy – at least he doesn’t make her shiver. Well, he probably  _could_  actually, with those hands and that face and–  _What is her problem_? She’s pretty sure she’s having some sort of spider-trauma-induced psychotic incident. 

Hot guy smiles. “Oliver,” he offers. “So, Felicity, are there any hot spots?”

“Is there anyway you can carpet bomb the entire place?” she wonders. “I can buy new…” she shrugs, “ _everything_.”

Hot guy –  _Oliver_  – is smiling at her again. “I don’t think you’ll need to do that. I’ll spray all the rooms.”

“Yes, good,” Felicity agrees. “Start with the bathroom – I locked them in.”

Oliver, who had turned to go further into her apartment, stops and turns back, giving her a puzzled look. “You… locked them in?”

“Yes.”

“Spiders.”

“Yes.”

“By…?”

Felicity blinks. “Well, I mean, I closed the door behind me when I ran out–” She stops, pressing her lips together. “When I calmly exited the bathroom this morning after the D-Day assault by my frenemy’s amphibious forces.”

Oliver’s mouth drops open a little and he stares at her.

“What?” she asks, self-conscious all of a sudden.

“You’re– You have quite a way with words.”

“Um…” she answers, eloquently. Because he sounds– Felicity frowns. He sounds impressed? Maybe a little intrigued? But definitely not like he’s making fun of her, which is… new and different. “Thank you?”

Then he gives the tiniest of head shakes, like he’s snapping himself out of their conversation, and says, “Let me take care of the amphibious forces.”

She grins at that, pure relief and admiration. “My hero!”

“Uh,” is all he says to that.

Felicity flushes and reaches for the doorknob. “I’ll just be out here when you’re done.” She pulls the door shut before he can answer, and spends the next fifteen minutes trying to figure out  _which_  ridiculous thing she said to hot– to _Oliver_  that was the most embarrassing. 

It’s a tight race. Could be a photo finish. 

Felicity thunks her head against the door and whines a little, leaning back and looking up at the overhead light. Which –  _gross_  – has a bunch of dead bugs in it. _Why so many bugs in her life all of a sudden_? 

She hears the doorknob turn and knows immediately what’s about to happen. She tries to shift her weight, to save the inevitable, ass-over-teakettle tumble into an unsuspecting hot bug guy, and she  _almost_  catches herself.

Instead, she takes a big, unbalanced step backwards and collides into a solid wall of Oliver. His arms come around her torso to steady her, and it’s like being hugged by a giant. A strong, warm giant. 

“You okay?” he asks, and his face is really close to hers, and his voice sounds amazing.

Felicity stiffens and pulls herself away, feeling the flush in her cheeks. “Sorry, sorry.” She turns to him. “I’m sorry, Oliver.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says with a wave.

She’s more than eager to change the subject, so she asks, “Did you massacre the evil spider army?”

Oliver chuckles. “I saw three spiders, and killed them all. And sprayed every room. You should be good now.”

“I could kiss you right now!” Felicity exclaims. And then she presses her lips together. “I mean, I  _won’t_ , obviously, because that would be sexual harassment. Or maybe not, since this isn’t an office.” She pauses to consider. “Though it’s technically your workplace? Kind of?”

“Felicity,” he says, and he sounds absolutely delighted. “You’re welcome.”

She tries very hard to ignore the blush she can feel in her cheeks, and meets his eyes. “I don’t think you fully understand the screaming depths of my arachnophobia. I’ve been sitting out here for three hours.”

Oliver gives the courtyard a pointed look. “Because there are no spiders out here? In  _nature_?”

“A girl can dream,” Felicity shoots back. “And I kept an eye out. To maintain minimum safe distance.”

Oliver nods slowly, grinning. “Okay.”

“They’re  _terrifying_ , Oliver,” she insists.

He reaches into his pocket, digging out a stack of cards that have seen better days, and a tiny pencil, like she’d expect to see at a mini golf course. “Tell you what,” Oliver says, “I’ll leave my card with you, and you give me a call if you see any spiders in your place, okay?”

“Well, but normally I would just call maintenance,” Felicity answers, but she accepts the card he presses into her palm. When she looks closer, he’s written “MY CELL” and a phone number. Oh.  _Oh_.

“You could do that,” Oliver says, and she jerks her head up to meet his gaze again. He’s  _incredibly_  handsome, and he’s giving her this smile that – yes, okay, might even be making her shiver a little bit. “Or,” Oliver continues, “you can call me directly.”

Felicity nods. “I could,” she agrees, her stomach doing a strange swooping thing.

“Anytime,” Oliver adds, taking a step back from her. “Day or night.”

She can feel herself grinning at him. “Because you make house calls.”

He’s grinning back at her. “Anytime,” he repeats. “Give me a call, and I’ll come right over and take care of you.” With that, Oliver turns and walks towards the parking lot, and, damn, he looks good from the back.

“Oliver,” she calls.

He pauses and turns back, eyebrows lifted in question.

“You mean you’d come take care of the spiders,” she says. “Right?”

“Right,” he answers. And then he smirks. “Or whatever else needs taking care of.”

Felicity’s cheeks burn with the implication, but she manages to nod. “’Kay.”

“I’ll talk to you soon, Felicity,” he says, “I hope.”

And then he’s gone, leaving her with some dead spiders, his phone number, and a sudden and massive crush on Oliver, the hot bug guy.

-30-


	25. Prompt Response: olicity, wrong car AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So darlinginmyway posted some random AU ideas and this one tickled me:
> 
> Wrong Car AU: Both members of your OTP have similar cars and at night (with perhaps a few drinks in them) they look identical. Person A is trying to unlock Person B’s car and can’t understand why their keys aren’t working… while person B is trying to figure out why some stranger is trying to break into their car and maybe they should call the cops?

Felicity blinks and leans closer to the car door, because everything is really blurry. And on some kind of time delay, maybe? Like, it takes a moment to focus properly. _Sort of_  properly. So she peers directly at the door handle like that will make it bend to her will.

Heh. Like Magneto.

She wouldn’t need  _keys_  if she were Magneto and could just… move metal around with her mind. 

It occurs to Felicity that she has tilted sideways and is mostly leaning on Iris’s car, one hand on the (still locked) door handle, while she giggles a little uncontrollably at all the ideas she has for her theoretical metal-manipulation powers.

 _Wow,_  how strong were those gin & tonics, anyway?

And why isn’t Iris letting her into the stupid car? “Irissssss,” she whines, but the interior of the car is so dark she can’t see much, even when she realizes her forehead is pressed against the glass. Though, sure, the trouble seeing could be her drunkenness. ‘Cause every time she moves, everything else blurs and trails a little behind, like those THE MORE YOU KNOW graphics.

So it’s reasonable for her to need a little help getting into the car when the handle isn’t where she left it. When Felicity locates the handle again, she starts to yank on it.

“Step away from the car,” orders a low, angry, male voice.

She blames the gin for the inelegant yelp she lets out in response. And for the way her limbs aren’t responding properly, leading to a pretty embarrassing overbalance-slash-tripping incident when she tries to turn to face…  _whoever_  is all growl-y and protecting Iris’s car. 

But before she hits the ground, she’s jerked to a stop and then pressed back against the car. Felicity blinks a few times, trying to figure out what happened, and then looks up at the man standing in front of her with his hands on her biceps. “Oh,” she says, “you’re  _huge_.” She should probably be concerned about that, since she’s in the parking lot of a bar at like one in the morning, alone except for her friend, Iris, who’s  _still_  not letting her in the car, and why is that? “I mean,” Felicity corrects, “you’re  _tall_. Not huge like  _fat_  or  _hung_. Well, you _might_  be hung, I don’t know. I can’t really tell from here.”

The man – who seems pretty attractive even through her excellent gin haze – stares at her. “Why are you trying to break into my car?” he sounds less growl-y now and more curious.

Felicity frowns. “Iris,” she says. Then nods. Then tries to wave her hand in the direction of the car, but only manages to bash her hand in to the window. Which should hurt, maybe? But doesn’t. She brings her hand closer to her face, but none of her fingers look broken or anything. “Ow?”

“Are you– Was that a question?” the guy asks.

Felicity refocuses on him. Kind of. His outline, really, he’s got a  _really_  nice outline. All… manly and manlike. With his man-hands on her arms. She giggles. “What?”

“Are you okay? Do you need a cab?”

“No, no, no,” Felicity says. “Iris picked me up.” She tries to tap the car for emphasis but misses, and the follow-through ruins her balance. 

Man-hands steadies her again. He’s very tall. And strong. With nice hair, maybe – it’s brown and pointy? “Who’s Iris?”

“That’s Iris!” she says. She pats the car’s side mirror affectionately. “Love Iris. Iris is great.”

“You… named my car?” Man-hands asks.

“What?” she scoffs. “Egotistical much!” she says. Tries to say. Whatever. _She_  knows what she meant, even if it came out all garbled.

He shakes his head a little. “What?”

“This is  _Iris’s_ car,” Felicity explains slowly, so Man-hands can catch up. Duh. “She’s picking me up.”

“This car is parked. Between two other cars. Also, it’s mine.”

Startled, Felicity straightens and tries to look around and – shit, there’s a car right next to them. How had she missed that earlier when she spotted Iris’s car? “Huh.” They’re apparently more in the parked-car section of the parking lot than the pick-me-up-from-the-bar-because-I’m-drunk section.

“Iris drives a BMW?” he asks.

Felicity giggles. “No. She’s not a douchebag.” He doesn’t say anything and she sways towards him a little when she tries to figure out what’s going on with his face. Expression-wise. “She’s got a Honda.”

“Why don’t we go back towards the street and see if Iris and her Honda are there?” Man-hands suggests.

“Never go with a hippie to a second location!” Felicity chirps, and then collapses against the car laughing. Because Man-hands drives a BMW so he’s obviously not a hippie. But she shouldn’t go with douchebags to a second location either, probably. 

“The street is literally twenty feet that way,” Man-hands says. “And I’m pretty sure I’ve never been called a hippie in my entire life. Now let’s find your friend, okay? Do you need to lean on me?”

“Lean on meeeee, when you’re not stroooong,” Felicity sings, letting him tug her along. He has an arm around her waist, and she would protest – because she doesn’t need a  _man_  to hold her upright! – but… she kinda needs help to stay upright. Just right now. Not  _usually_. Because feminism! “I’ll be your friend,” she continues, and then frowns. “I forget. Other stuff. That rhymes, probably. What rhymes with  _friend_? Bend?”

If she didn’t know better, she’d think Man-hands was laughing at her. “What color is your friend’s car?” 

“Felicity!”

Felicity nearly topples over when she tries to turn to her friend. “Irissss!”

And Iris is there, car keys in her hand, standing near the trunk of her car, which is totally not where Felicity thought it was earlier. When it was Man-hands’ douchebag BMW. She’s still not sure how she ended up wandering around the parked cars. 

Iris looks – confused? “Felicity, where have you been?” 

“I thought your car was over there,” Felicity says half-turning, but into Man-hands, and he’s kind of like a brick wall. “So hard,” she says. “Why are you so hard?”

And –  _oh_. There’s more light here closer to the street and the streetlights, and even with the gin-haze, Felicity can see Man-hands is pretty hot. 

Also he’s grinning at her. And his big man-hands are still on her waist. Which she definitely does not hate. Huh.

“Felicity,” Iris says. She sounds exasperated. “Who’s your friend?”

“Man-hands?” Felicity asks, tearing her gaze from his very manly man-face to look over at her friend.

“ _Man-hands_?” he repeats, and –  _shit_  – she said that out loud. 

“Ummm,” she says, playing for time. But Iris and Man-hands are still just staring at her all confused-like. “Dunno his name,” she whispers to Iris, but it sounds really loud. He probably heard her. Since he’s standing still kind of close to her. “I tried to get into his car. Not on purpose, though,” Felicity clarifies with a wave of her hand. “I mean, purposefully, but not really. You know?”

“She thought it was yours,” Man-hands explains. “I’m Oliver. Not  _man-hands_.”

“Sorry,” Felicity whispers. “Your hands are big. And, you know, manly.”

“And hard?” Iris asks, sounding way too amused.

Felicity’s eyes widen, and she might be blushing. But Iris is smiling at her, and she’s so beautiful that Felicity forgets to be embarrassed. “You’re so beautiful,” Felicity tells her.  with a sigh. She glances up at Man-hands –  _Oliver_  – and asks, “Isn’t she gorgeous?”

“You’re both beautiful,” Oliver tells her, and his eyes might be really,  _really_  blue, if the gin isn’t playing tricks on her. And he’s all scruffy and handsome and damn. 

“Is this a drunk dream?” Felicity wonders. She reaches up and pinches Oliver’s arm, then nods. “Nope. Guess not.”

He’s smiling down at her. “I think you’re supposed to pinch  _yourself_.”

“Well,  _this_  is the unrealistic part,” she says, proud of herself for enunciating (mostly) properly as she sweeps a hand down his torso to prove her point. “So I had to prove  _you_  were real.”

He’s laughing, but then Iris is – hello – right up beside Felicity and linking their arms. 

“Okay,” Iris says, “I think it’s time to get you to bed.”

Felicity is  _soooooooo_  drowsy all of a sudden, and bed sounds amazing. “’Kay,” she says. “Bye, Oliver.” His name is hard to say.

“Bye, Felicity,” he answers.

That rouses her briefly. “Wait, how’d you know my name?” she wonders.

He’s grinning at her again. “Iris said it. A few times. It’s nice to meet you, Felicity.”

She’s pretty sure she’s grinning back, even as she lets her head fall onto Iris’s shoulder. “You, too. You’re really handsome.”

“Thank you,” he says.

And it’s possible Felicity passes out just a little bit then, because she would _swear_  she was standing in the parking lot with Iris and Man-hands –  _Oliver_  – and then some big, gentle man hands are carefully buckling the seat belt around her. When she blinks open her eyes, she’s in Iris’s car and Oliver is crouched beside the open passenger door. 

She blinks slowly. “Hey,” she says.

“Hey,” he answers. “Iris put my number in your phone.”

It takes Felicity a minute to figure out why he’d give her his phone number. Then her mouth drops into a surprised  _Oh_. 

Oliver grins. “You should give me a call.”

She smiles at him, but can’t figure out what to say in response. 

His smile softens, and he touches her hand for a moment. “Good night, Felicity.”

Iris asks her about a thousand questions on the relatively short drive back to her apartment, and it’s really the only thing keeping her conscious until she can stumble into her place and fall face first into her bed.

In the morning, she wakes with a  _killer_  headache, an intense need to pee immediately, and the hazy memory of some hot guy whose car she accidentally tried to steal? What? After she makes it to the bathroom, then drinks a glass of water while the coffee brews, and then drinks a cup of coffee, she collapses back into bed to grab her phone from the nightstand and call Iris for some sort of recap.

And then she sees the text she sent to  _Oliver Man-Hands_ :   _ **thks fro not assaulting me**._

Then:   _ **arresting. ducking automobile**_.

 _“_ Oh, my God,” Felicity murmurs, horrified. So there  _was_  a hot guy whose number she has and she  _drunk-texted him_? And – oh, shit – he replied?

_**Really glad you drunkenly groped my car, Felicity. Haven’t had such an unexpectedly good night in a while**. _

And then:   _ **Don’t forget advil and water before you pass out.**_

 _“_ Oh, no,” she says. “Is he hot and  _super nice_?” She swipes to her contacts and presses Iris’s face a little aggressively, forgetting all about her headache as she waits for her friend to answer. 

“Morning, drunky,” Iris chirps.

“Iris,” Felicity says, “what  _happened_?”

-30-


	26. Dialogue-Only Drabble: olicity, "I can't breathe"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> carogables asked: Olicity and "I can't breathe" - yay fic prompts!
> 
> **Got this same prompt from an anon, too.

“I can’t breathe. Am I breathing? I feel like an elephant is standing on my ribcage.”

“Felicity, you need to calm down and just–-”

“Big elephant, Oliver. Heavy. Standing right here. I can’t  _breathe_ right now.”

“Yes, you can. You’re  _talking_.”

“This isn’t  _talking_ , this is  _panicking._ ”

“Felicity–-”

“CEO? I’m–- Ray suggested–- And the Board voted–-  _CEO, Oliver_?”

“I can’t think of anyone better suited than–-”

“Oh, shut it, Oliver, you’re just glad you don’t have to try to remember what EBITDA is anymore.”

“That’s… Well, that’s true, but not the point. Felicity, you’re smarter than any ten people I know.”

“That’s a really strange way to try to tell me I’m smart.”

“… _why_?”

“Because you spend a lot of time with dumb criminals.”

“Felicity.”

“I’m just– I can’t  _do_  this, Oliver! If the Board wants me to redesign the server architecture to maximize security protocols?  _That_  I can do. Better than – Well, honestly, I can do  _that_ better than  _anyone_  you know.”

“I love it when you’re smug.”

“That wasn’t smug. It was mostly confidence with maybe a  _little_  smug. But _earned_  smugness. I have an advanced degree in computer science,  _not_  from the London School of Economics!”

“Felicity. Listen, you don’t have to take this. They can’t  _draft_  you –- it’s just an offer. But if you put your mind to it, I know you would be amazing.”

“I can’t refuse it, Oliver.”

“Of course you can.”

“No – this company, it belongs in your family. Which is  _not_  to say that I’m part of your family, obviously. I didn’t mean that. I just mean – I can’t let Queen Consolidated drift farther away from you and Thea if there’s anything I can do to keep hold of it for you in the meantime.”

“Felicity, you  _are_  my family. Please tell me you know that.”

“Oliver…”

“I love you, and because I love you and that amazing brain of yours, I can’t let you make this kind of decision because of  _me_  or something you think I might want.”

“It’s  _my_  decision, Oliver, and I can choose what criteria to consider when I–-”

“Okay, okay. Just… please do what’s best for  _you_.”

“Oliver?”

“Yeah?”

“If this… If this means going back to Starling, is that… I know you wanted to be far away, and you know I want to be with you, but I just–”

“Hey, hey, Felicity. You’re my family. You’re my home. If you go back to Starling, I’m coming with you.”

“Okay. So. That’s settled.”

“Wait –- what’s settled?”

“If we’re  _this_ , if we’re together like this –- where I go, you go, and vice versa –-then any big decision like this should be made on the basis of what’s best for me _and_  for us.”

“No, Felicity, that’s not–”

“Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll… try my hand at CEO-ing. Which isn’t a verb, so I should probably brush up on the jargon first. Seriously, though, did you see the salary package, Oliver? I don’t mean to rub it in, but they’re going to be paying me more than they paid you as CEO. Maybe I mean to rub it in a  _little_. Like a gentle ribbing. A little light teasing. And… now that sounds dirty, which isn’t at all how I meant it. But–”

“Felicity-–”

“–-with this salary, I can  _definitely_  get some new, CEO-appropriate dresses. Dress shopping, Oliver! And shoes –- ohhhh, the shoes I’ll be able to buy. And–-

“Felicity–”

“–I’m not why I was  _so_  freaked out. I mean,  _you_  kept the company mostly on track without a business degree, so how hard could it be?”

“ _Felicity_!”

“That wasn’t meant as an insult, Oliver. Just that-–”

“You’re gonna be so much better at this than I ever was.”

“That’s not true, Oliver. I know what this company means to you, and I’ll do my best to keep it going for you and Thea.”

“And you. You’re gonna own half one day, Ms. Smoak.”

“Well. Actually. This offer comes with a  _sizable_  stock ownership transfer, so technically,  _you’re_ gonna own half one day, Mr. Queen.”

-30-

_I have no idea what this is. Heh._


	27. Dialogue-Only Drabble: "I'm gonna be sick." - Thea and Felicity.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> youguysimserious asked: "I'm gonna be sick." - Thea and Felicity.
> 
> Sorry in advaaaance! NSFW discussion below. Yeah. I don’t know.

“Oh, my God, I’m going to be  _sick_!”

“Thea!”

“Is there such a thing as memory-erasing hypnosis, because–-”

“No, Thea, wait, it’s really not what you think!”

“It’s not?”

“No. I swear.”

“Felicity, are you or are you not in a monogamous relationship with my brother?”

“Well… I mean,  _yes_ , but that’s not what this is really–-”

“Are you or are you not holding a cock ring right now? Which you -– are you _wrapping it in silk ties_?”

“Thea! How do you even know what this is?”

“I’m… not  _twelve_ , Felicity.”

“No, I know, you’re right. I just–-”

“Adopted as your very own Ollie’s really  _annoying_  refusal to see me as an adult woman?”

“Not at all. More like… I don’t want to think about you and any familiarity that you and – God, ugh –  _Roy_  may have with sex toys.”

“Hold up –-why did you just ‘ _God, ugh_ ‘ Roy?”

“No, no, no, Roy’s great. Very handsome. Just… he’s basically like my brother.”

“So thinking of him that way is traumatizing for you, huh?”

“Definitely.”

“Gee, I wonder how it could be weird for your friend to make your brain start to _associate sex toys with your actual brother, then_!”

“Oh.  _Oh_. Yeah, but, no, Thea, this is a  _joke_ , errr, cock ring. See? It vibrates.”

“Oh, my  _God._ It’s still for my  _brother’s_ –-  _Ugh_ , this is the worst conversation I’ve ever had, and I lived with my psycho dad for like five months!”

“Thea, the joke is that Oliver doesn’t  _need_  any help with-– You know what? I just heard it, and I’m gonna stop talking. Consider the subject dropped.”

“Please.  _God_. Let’s never speak of this again.”

“Yes. Okay.”

“Because you know, if I’m forced to know  _way_  more than I ever wanted to know about my brother’s –- I can’t even talk about this. But, Felicity?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t make me tell you Roy’s go-to move involving two fingers, his tongue, and this thing he does with my leg–-”

“OH, MY GOD, PLEASE STOP TALKING.”

“See?  _Now_ we have an understanding.”

“A terrible, awful, brain-scarring understanding.”

“Says the woman holding the cock ring.”

-30-

Clearly I need a nap.


	28. Dialogue-Only Drabble: olicity, "You don't have to stay"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wagamiller asked: If you're still doing the dialogue only prompts: “You don’t have to stay.” -- Also, I've had a shitty week (my cat's ill and it's looking like she might have to be put to sleep) so can I be pathetic and ask for it to be something cheerful? I could really do with something cheerful.
> 
> OMG, I am sending massively healing vibes for your kitty, and hugs for you. ::smoosh:: Total nonsense beneath the cut – I hope it helps!

 

  
“You don’t have to stay.”

“Oliver, you’re being ridiculous.”

“I don’t need a babysitter. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. Sick is the  _opposite_  of fine.”

“I’m not  _sick_ , Felicity.”

“That trashcan overflowing with crumpled up tissues would suggest otherwise.”

“I have allergies.”

“It’s February, Oliver.”

“Fine. It’s just some minor kind of head cold. I’ve survived worse.”

“You know I hate it when you minimize your pain just because–-”

“Because I have literally been tortured?”

“Oliver.”

“Just stating facts.”

“No, you’re trying to make me feel bad for you so that I’ll give in and give you exactly what you want.”

“Is that… Is that on the table right now, or…?”

“Oliver! Get your germ-y hands off of me! We are not having sex just so you can avoid admitting that you’re sick and you need to rest.”

“That’s not the  _only_ reason that–-”

“ _Plus_ you are not giving  _me_  this terrible cold if I can help it. So you just take two steps back and, you know, stay over there.”

“So… that’s a  _no_  on the sex, then.”

“Stop pouting. You look ridiculous.”

“I’m not pouting.”

“Look, Oliver, you’re not on Hell-bag Island right now–-"

“ _Hell-bag Island_?”

“–-so why don’t you take some sinus pills, drink more orange juice, take off the leather, and get into bed so-–”

“Sex is back on the table?”

“Oliver!”

“Felicity, I feel fine, and I have to patrol–-”

“You are sweaty and gross, you haven’t eaten a proper meal in the last twelve hours  _at least_ , and it’s a slow night. There’s nothing going on that you need to stick your red, chapped, angry nose into.”

“Your bedside manner could use some work, Felicity.”

“Fine. Strip and get in bed and I’ll try harder.”

“I’m getting really mixed messages on the sex issue–-”

“Oliver! You are swaying on your feet, your eyes are all watery, and your nose is, wow,  _really_ red-- we should maybe put some vaseline or something on your nose? Do you have the kleenex with the lotion in them?”

“I don’t need to be  _coddled_ , Felicity.”

“Oliver Queen! You are  _sick_  and that’s okay, because you are  _human_  and humans have actual human weaknesses, like immune systems that can’t perfectly fight off all the viruses they encounter.”

“Feli–-”

“And if you don’t stop being so  _stubborn_ and  _impossible_ , I can’t take care of you the way you need, and the way  _I need to_. And you should know me better by now than to think I would be at all okay with that. Because I promised to take care of you –  _specifically_  including  _in sickness_ in that particular promise, if you’ll recall correctly. I made that promise in front of God and Digg and everybody, and you had better get your ass out of those leathers and into that bed!”

“Um… I could… I guess I could take the medicine and–- and everything.”

“There. Was that so hard?”

“You know what  _is_  hard…?”

“Not happening, Oliver.”

“Being sick  _sucks_.”

-30-


	29. Prompt Response: olicity, I beat you at Mario Kart and now I’ve been banished to the couch for the night AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> effie214 asked: MARIO KART AU. Please and thank you.
> 
> Excellent choice, m’dear! I hope I did this justice. :) Like… seven million years later. (Sorry!)
> 
> The full prompt: I beat you at Mario Kart and now I’ve been banished to the couch for the night AU

 

Oliver has been lying on the couch in the darkness for three hours.

Not sleeping. Despite the pillow and blanket tossed to him by his wife when she banished him from their bedroom with a snarky “I don’t sleep with cheaters,” he cannot fall asleep.

It’s ridiculous. 

He spent years sleeping on any kind of flat(ish) surface –- hard patches of dirt, rough canvas cots, more than one cement floor. He’s slept outside in the rain, and in too few layers for the temperatures. Once, he fell asleep standing up, just by leaning into the corner of a room in the shitty, unheated Moscow tenement  while surveilling one of Anatoli’s corrupt lieutenants. 

What’s even more frustrating is that the couch in their townhouse is actually comfortable. It’s plush and welcoming and it’s not even too short for him to stretch his 6′1″ frame out. He’s spent  _hours_ napping soundly here before.

There’s  _no reason_  he should be having trouble falling asleep right now.

It’s just –- he  _really_  hates it when Felicity is mad at him.

He legitimately cannot calm his mind when he knows things aren’t okay between them. And they’re obviously not, or he wouldn’t be on the damn  _couch_  for the night. Over a stupid video game.

Groaning, Oliver rolls off the couch and onto his feet. He leaves the blanket in a crumpled heap, but grabs the pillow. He’s not trying to be stealthy, but makes very little noise as he pads down the hall to their bedroom. Years of habit. And a benefit is that he’ll most likely be able to observe his wife when she’s not aware of his presence. 

Which is one of his favorite pastimes. Felicity calls it creepy. She’s more of an open starer. 

The door to the darkened bedroom is cracked, and he pushes it further, peering into the interior lit only by faint, refracted light from the street. 

Felicity is curled in a little ball, half under the blanket. It’s unusual –- she typically sprawls across the bed, hitting him with limbs and rolling herself into knots under the sheets. Tonight, though, she’s lying on his side of the bed. The uncomfortable tightness in his chest that’s been there since their ridiculous fight earlier finally loosens. 

He moves to the bed quickly, dumping his pillow above her head. This close, he can see she’s sleeping in his henley, and whatever reservations he had about ignoring her instructions to get his ass to the couch disappear. She only resorts to sleeping in his clothes when she misses him.

Carefully, Oliver leans down and scoops her up. She murmurs something and turns her face into his chest. He turns and sits on the bed, easing further onto the mattress and reorienting himself before lying back and pulling her along so she can settle against him.

It’s that movement that finally wakes her.

“What’s chocolate?” she asks, and he huffs a laugh into her hair. Felicity does _not_  wake gracefully. Or coherently. Her first words every morning are usually nonsense sprinkled with food references.

“Sorry,” he says, “no chocolate.”

She grumbles a little and tilts her head back, blinking up at him. “’M’still mad at you.” Her head is resting on his shoulder, her fingers drawing little patterns against his abdomen. 

“Are you?” he asks. “Because I think  _maybe_  you overreacted and didn’t give me a chance to apologize. Which,” he adds, “I never thought I’d do.”

Her eyes are clearer now, and she’s starting to glare a little. “You never thought you’d apologize to me?  _Ever_?”

Oliver runs his palm down her spine slowly, just the way she likes, and she melts into him a little bit more. “No, I mean I never thought I’d apologize for kissing you.”

Felicity shifts, bringing her bare leg up and over his thigh. “You don’t need to apologize for kissing me, you need to apologize for kissing me in order to distract me and win the game. Which,” she continues, holding one finger up, “you did  _not_ , because cheaters never win.”

Oliver tries very, very hard not to smirk. And fails. “Actually, I did win and-–”

“You forfeited,” she interrupts. 

“I really didn’t,” he retorts, grinning. “And I’m not sorry for kissing you. I’ll never be sorry for that, Felicity.”

“You kissed me with  _ill intent_ ,” she accuses, and the pout on her face in conjunction with such strange phrasing hits him funny. 

He can’t stop laughing, his body shaking silently. She sighs irritably and tries to pull away, but he tightens his grip on her. “No, no,” he manages. “Stay here.”

“There are rules, Oliver,” she recites, sounding just like she did earlier, when she’d been standing over him, hands on hips, controller tossed angrily onto the couch, banishing him from their bedroom. 

“You count cards,” he points out. Reasonably. Because she doesn’t have much high ground to stand on when they’re discussing the flouting of gaming rules. 

Felicity flushes just a little, from anger or embarrassment, he’s not sure. “Not the point,” she argues. “I needed some walking around money. And anyway, how am I supposed to trust your kisses now?”

Oliver opens his mouth to answer, but is actually flummoxed. “Wait, what?”

“You didn’t kiss me because you wanted to _kiss_  me, you kissed me to distract me so you could win a game. So how am I supposed to know whether you’re –- eeeep! Oliver, you could warn a person!” 

He’s rolled her abruptly onto her back, bracing himself on his elbows so he can stare down at her. “Felicity. Every  _single_  time I kiss you, it’s because I want to kiss you. Because I love you.” He watches her closely, willing her to see that he’s completely serious. When her expression softens, he smirks a little and adds, “And because I want to have sex with you. A lot. Basically all the time.”

She’s got her lips pressed together, trying to tamp down the smile, but it’s not working. “Every single time you kiss me, you want to have sex with me?”

Oliver grins. “I mean...  _yeah._ ”

“While we were playing Mario Kart, I was just  _so_  irresistible that you-–”

“I had to kiss you,” he says, “because when I looked over at you, you had that little crease right here-–” He trails a fingertip above her nose-– “and you were working the control with your entire body, like if you just leaned far enough to the right, Baby Rosalina would make the turn. Your adorableness is, yes, irresistible sometimes.  _Most_  times.”

She narrows her eyes at him, and he knows she’s charmed and trying desperately to hide it. “At the Foundry,” she asks skeptically, “with Dig standing right there?”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not suggesting we put on a show for –- for  _anyone_ , I’m just reassuring you that my motives when I kiss you are pure.”

Her smile is wide and amused now, and she’s got her hands on him – one gripping his hip to pull him close, the other tracing the edge of the burnt tissue at the small of his back. “Pure sex motives?”

Oliver nods slowly. “The purest of sex motives.”

“Well,” she drawls, “in  _that_  case, maybe I can be the bigger person, you know? Find it in my heart to forgive you for–-”

He’s kissing her because he loves her  _so much._ And, yeah, he wants to have sex with her. Right now. And he can tell by the way her hand dips into the waistband of his boxer briefs that she is on board with this plan. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” she says a few minutes later, breathing hard and utterly naked beneath him.

Oliver groans. “What?”

“Just–” She reaches up, framing his face with her hands, and kisses him sweetly. “After this, we are playing again and I am totally kicking your ass.” Then she beams at him. “Carry on.”

-30-


	30. Deleted 4x01 Dialogue:  @marcguggenheim: I’ll give you a line that DIDN’T make it in.  How’s that? Felicity (getting ready to type): I think you only wanted Oliver back because he comes with my fingers.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @marcguggenheim: I’ll give you a line that DIDN’T make it in. How’s that? Felicity (getting ready to type): I think you only wanted Oliver back because he comes with my fingers.
> 
> And then darlinginmyway made me do it. Heee.

 

Felicity can’t help the grin on her face as she approaches the bank of computers. She settles into her chair with a satisfied sigh, because –- not that she didn’t  _love_  months and months of just being with Oliver –-she can’t really deny that it feels good to be back. 

Abruptly, she frowns, her fingers stilling on the keyboard. “Oh, what did they  _do_  to you?” she murmurs.

She tunes out Oliver’s amused huff of a laugh, and Laurel’s audible exhale of – Felicity assumes – mild offense. But, seriously, would it have killed them to run a disc scan even  _once_  while she was gone?

Diggle’s warm palm lands on her shoulder and she looks up. God, she’d missed him and the way he can convey fond amusement with the slightest shift of his eyebrows. “Felicity,” he says, “we’re glad to have you back here, because you’re the only person we trust to keep this setup humming.”

Smirking now, she throws a look over her shoulder at Oliver, then winks at Diggle. “I think you only wanted Oliver back because he comes with my fingers.”

She’s half-turned back to the screens when she hears a strange choking noise from behind her. Concerned, she turns to find four expressions showing varying mixes of horror and amusement. Well, okay,  _three_ faces like that, plus Oliver, who’s pressing his lips together to keep from laughing. So  _just_  amusement from him.

And, if she’s being honest, more than a hint of smugness.

“What?” she asks. Because... seriously,  _what_?

Thea drops her face into her palms. “Please,” she wails, her voice muffled, “don’t keep talking about it. Move along.”

But Felicity is lost. She gives Oliver a puzzled look, and he takes two quick steps to her side to drop his hand onto her shoulder. Like he used to when they were just two platonic teammates working together and ignoring all the blistering sexual tension. It’s nostalgic fun, considering the way he touches her  _these_  days. “Just run the searches,” Oliver suggests, his voice suffused with laughter. 

Laurel still looks slightly put-out, and Diggle looks like he swallowed a bug, and–- Felicity’s face floods with heat. Because she’d said–- She’d said that Oliver–- Oh, God.  _He_   _comes with my fingers?_

“No!” she says, eyes wide, shaking her head. “No, I didn’t–-

“Please, Felicity,” Diggle interrupts. “ _Please_.”

She’s got her hand wrapped around Oliver’s forearm, silently asking for help, but he’s still facing away from the rest of the team, shoulders shaking with _mostly_ suppressed laughter. “Fat lot of help  _you_  are,” Felicity huffs. She gives Diggle an apologetic look. “I swear, I meant my magic fingers.”

“It’s getting worse,” Thea groans. “Why are you still talking?”

“Magic with  _computers_ ,” Felicity says loudly. “Not with Oliver’s-–”

Oliver cups her face in his warm palms and leans down to kiss her. With a bit more enthusiasm than she really expected, considering the context. And the audience. And when the chorus of groans and comments gets too loud, he pulls back, beaming down at her. 

Then he leans in, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispers, “ _Yes_  with Oliver’s-–”

“Oliver!” she yelps, her cheeks heating up again with embarrassment. And, yes, okay, also more than a little bit of smugness. Because yeah. She has, in fact, reduced Oliver, this tower of muscle and sinew and determination, to putty in the palm of her hand. She feels pretty good about that, and it probably shows on her face as she quirks an eyebrow in his direction.

“Please tell me this isn’t the new normal,” Diggle pleads. “I thought all the mournful  _gazing_ was bad, but this…” He shakes his head.

Oliver is completely unfazed as he leans his hip against the computer table. “You asked us to come back and we came, so you don’t get-–”

This time, it’s Felicity who dissolves into giggles. Laurel close her eyes and shakes her head slightly, Thea mutters something under her breath, and Diggle turns abruptly. “Why don’t we go get food while you two...” He waves a dismissive hand. “We’ll be back.”

Felicity is still laughing, Oliver grinning down at her from his perch beside her, when Thea pops her head back into the room and points at them. “No sex in the lair!”

-30-

Yeah, I don’t know.


	31. MTV Reblog: dialogue-only drabbles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mostly silly little dialogue fics to assist the MTV reblog efforts. If you've got a tumblr, please **[go reblog this post](http://mtv.tumblr.com/post/122443593980/nominee-3-of-6-like-or-reblog-this-post-to-vote)!** :)
> 
> #1: who wears socks to bed?  
> #2: are you a dog person or a cat person?

[#1](http://machawicket.tumblr.com/post/122466661252/dust2dust34-smoakandarrow-athenaagron) [to answer the question: Who wears socks to bed?]

“Oliver, are you...?”

“What?”

“You’re naked.”

“I’m aware of that. I was there when you peeled my clothes off of me-–”

“Oliver-–”

“–-And then climbed me like a tree.”

“I did _not_ climb-– Not the point. Why are you wearing socks?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re naked -– which I am a big fan of; _huge_ fan, as you’re well aware –- but you’re wearing socks.”

“The–- the kitchen floor is very cold, Felicity.”

“Oh, my God, you lived on an _island_ for two years, and your delicate feet can’t handle-–”

“You’re the one who kicked me out of bed to–-”

“I did not _kick you out of bed_.”

“-–get you more water.”

“Technically, it was your fault I was so thirsty.”

“So this is what I get for being a gentleman? Mockery?”

“Hey, I’m not the one ruining the sexy, smoldering, naked guy thing with droopy athletic socks, so–-”

“How about we avoid the word _droopy_ when we’re naked in bed.”

“Mmmm, definitely doesn’t apply to our current situation.”

“Felicity?”

“Yeah?”

“Drink up -– you should really hydrate before a workout.”

-30-

& & &

[#2](http://machawicket.tumblr.com/post/122558386947/mtv-nominee-3-of-6-like-or-reblog-this-post-to)

"Are you a dog person or a cat person?”

“Felicity, what-?”

“Don’t you think this sort of basic information is the kind of stuff we should already know about each other? We’ve known each other nearly three years, and we’ve been _together_ together three months. I know you like maple syrup on basically everything. I know which boxer briefs are you favorite. I even know your about-to-wake-up noises, but I don’t know if you’d rather adopt a dog or a cat.”

“You... think I have a favorite pair of underwear?”

“You wear the heather grey with the–- Not the point. Dog or cat?”

“Felicity. Am I being forced to adopt an animal?”

“How do you not just _always_ want to adopt an animal? Or several? Animals are the best! They’re furry little bundles of love.”

“We never had pets growing up. I don’t-– I guess I don’t fully understand the attachment.”

“Oliver, I hope you realize this means we are absolutely getting a pet when we get home.”

“Oh, we are, are we?”

“Absolutely. So now we just need to determine whether we should get a dog or a cat.”

“Well, Felicity, judging from the cooing noises you make every time we pass someone walking their dog, I already know you’re a dog person.”

“I feel like that’s cheating somehow.”

“Me being observant is cheating? I thought it made me a good boyfriend.”

“Oh, Oliver, you should have no worries on that score. I’m just saying, I could be a _both_ person and you wouldn’t know just from your observations since most people don’t walk their cats.”

“Isn’t it more that most cats won’t be walked?”

“Hmmm, and that kind of comment makes me think you might be a cat person. Which makes sense now that I think about it.”

“You’re not gonna call me a pussy right now, are you?”

“Oliver!”

“Or a pussy expert?”

“Oh, my God. I was going to say something nice to you, but now–-”

“Felicity, why do you think I’m a cat person? I’ll be good.”

“Just –- you know, cats are exceedingly stubborn, they’re excellent hunters, they go out each night and prowl around their territory, and they’re very selective about the people they choose to befriend.”

“I... Yeah, okay, that’s not where I thought you were going at all.”

“I gathered.”

“I think this should be your decision, Felicity.”

“It’ll be _our_ decision, Oliver. If we got a high-energy dog, you could take her on your shorter runs. Though dogs need to be walked a lot, and that could be a problem with our respective jobs.”

“Felicity, I’m not sure you’ve noticed, but we’re both currently jobless.”

“Temporarily. And considering how busy our day-to-day lives are, we might do better with an affectionate cat. They’re a little more self-sufficient.”

“Felicity?”

“Yes?”

“Why don’t we spend some time at a shelter once we’re back in Starling. And whatever animal makes you happy, we’ll bring home.”

“We’ll bring home.”

“Yes.”

“To our home where we’ll live together?”

“Yes. I thought we’d get a place. For us. I mean, unless you’d-– I’m not trying to rush-–”

“That’s perfect. You, me, and a fluffy friend in our own place.”

“Okay, but we are not calling our pet Fluffy.”

“Hmmm, we’ll see.”

-30-

Tags:  
#two months later they adopted a two-year-old long-haired cat  
#and named her starbuck  
#after the coffee chain and felicity's favorite character from BSG  
#but absolutely everyone on Team Arrow except oliver called starbuck FLUFFY


	32. MTV Reblog:  olicity, "He wins the argument with his mouth..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another little fic to assist the MTV reblog efforts. If you've got a tumblr, please **[go reblog this post](http://mtv.tumblr.com/post/122443593980/nominee-3-of-6-like-or-reblog-this-post-to-vote)!** :)

Oliver wins the argument (that’s not really an argument) with his mouth.

It’s possibly her favorite thing about Oliver-as-boyfriend that Felicity’s learned on their trip so far –- he is not above using his mouth to get his way. He  _enthusiastically_  uses his (damnably talented) mouth to get his way, actually.  Like this morning, when he used his tongue until she caved on staying in bed instead of joining the other residents of the B&B for breakfast. 

Just now, he’d been dead set on being the one to run into the Java Hut to order the coffees. When it’s something that silly, Felicity is fine with losing. And occasionally might argue with him just so he’ll feel like he has to kiss her breathless to win.

Because, really, who’s the  _actual_  winner in that scenario?

She is. Obviously. 

Which is why she’s standing out in the hot, humid northeast-in-the-summertime sun watching Oliver through the window, with a truly dopey grin on her face. She’d be irritated if the cafe were air-conditioned, but even from out here, she can see the dark sweat stain forming between his shoulder blades.

And after approximately two full minutes of sweltering on the sidewalk, Felicity decides that watching someone stand in line –- even someone as undeniably handsome as Oliver Queen –- is incredibly boring. 

There’s a young, not-super-tall, not-that-leafy tree two storefronts down, and Felicity drifts over to stand in its meager shade. It’s not until about five seconds before Oliver appears at her side with their coffees that she realizes with a panicky jolt that she’s standing in front of a jewelry store.  A jewelry store with a very sparkly display window.

“Iced latte, two sugars,” Oliver announces, presenting her drink with a flourish. She grins up at him and accepts the cup and a quick kiss. He’s much more openly affectionate than she really expected. It’s kind of cute.

“My hero,” she teases, taking a sip and savoring the cool liquid as it slides down her throat. God, one thing she doesn’t miss about the East Coast is this suffocating humidity. 

“See anything you like?” Oliver asks, a note of something she can’t quite recognize in his voice.

She glances up at him, a joke about hot men and cold drinks dying on her lips when he tilts his head towards the jewelry store.

“Oh,” she answers quickly. “No, no -– I’m here for this.” She hooks her thumb towards the tree behind her. “It’s gotta be maybe a half-degree cooler in the shade. Though no less humid,” she adds, frowning. She’s seriously considering pressing the cool, wet plastic of her drink cup against her breastbone.

“Do you–-” Oliver stops, shifts his weight in that slightly anxious way she’s only seen from him a couple times. Ever. And Felicity goes still, watching him warily. “You like jewelry a lot,” he says, reaching up to give the delicate metal oval dangling from her ear a gentle flick. “But you don’t really wear rings. Do you not like rings?”

Felicity blinks, her hand clenching so tightly around her latte that the plastic creaks ominously. “I...” she begins, but she really doesn’t have any idea where to go with that sentence, because her solemn, devoted boyfriend of three months is standing in front of a display of sparkling diamonds, asking her if she likes rings. How did she get here? And what is she supposed to say?

“Felicity, I’m not proposing,” he says, grabbing her hand and squeezing. 

She’s not sure if she’s relieved or disappointed. “I know,” she answers quickly. “I mean, obviously you’re not. I know that.” Then she looks at the iced latte in her hand and takes a large pull from the straw, starting to cough when it goes down the wrong way.

Oliver is rubbing her back, making small distressed noises, as she coughs until her eyes water. Which is doing nothing to ease the tension in her body of this unexpected topic of conversation.

“Hey,” he says when she can finally draw air into her lungs without coughing. “Let me–-” He take her coffee and turns, bending down to place it on the ground beneath the tree with his. When he straightens and turns back to her, he takes both of her hands in his. “Hey,” he says in that soft tone he only ever uses with her. “I’m not proposing right now, today.” He holds her gaze, and he’s calm and steadfast as he watches her watch him. “But I  _will_  propose. So I was just wondering why you never seem to wear rings.”

Felicity opens her mouth, closes it again, and glances away. “Are we...?” She takes a deep breath and looks up at this man that she loves beyond reason. His blue eyes are steady, and she envies him his poise.  _He_  didn’t nearly choke to death on his beverage. “Are we really having this conversation right now?”

“I already know that I want to spend my life with you,” Oliver answers, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, barely needing to be spoken aloud. Felicity gapes at him, and her reaction is the thing that seems to throw him off. He takes a quick breath, shifts his weight a little. “I mean, unless you–-”

“I do,” Felicity interrupts quickly, then winces at the particular phrase she’d blurted out. “Want to,” she adds, then scrunches her nose in irritation. “Do that with you.” God, could she be more awkward? “The life-spending.” Yes. Yes, she can.

But Oliver lets his breath out all in a rush, and he’s smiling at her so happily that she pushes up on her toes to kiss him. He lets go of her hands, wraps his big arms around her and pulls her flush up against his warm, damp chest. She’s so thrown -– in the best way -– by this unexpected conversation that she doesn’t even care that it’s 87 and humid out, and the last thing she should want to do is plaster her damp sweaty body against his damp sweaty body. 

When she drops back to her normal height, he’s beaming down at her, and she feels settled enough in this strange new world where  _Oliver wants to marry her_  that she can even tease him a little. “I wasn’t loitering here because I’m fishing for diamonds,” she says. “You know that, right?”

“Of course,” he answers. “But I really am curious –- do rings bother you when you type?”

Felicity doesn’t know how to answer. Because they do kind of bother her, but now that she knows that Oliver wants to propose -–  _propose!_  -– to her, the mental image of him looking up at her with a ring in his hand is… well... she  _really_  wants that. And she doesn’t know how to say any of that out loud without sounding like a horrible gold-digger. Despite being the current member of their relationship with the higher net worth.

But Oliver knows her well enough to understand all of the things she has trouble saying. He nods at her. “Well, then, how about a ring that you can wear on a chain when it’s getting in the way?” he suggests.

She palms the back of his neck and practically yanks him down to her. Oliver laughs into her mouth, and then he’s kissing her again, and it’s really great. And the tiny part of her mind that’s not completely focused on his talented lips is wondering whether them both saying aloud that they want to spend their lives together isn’t kind of an engagement on its own, rings and necklaces notwithstanding. Then Oliver nips her bottom lip, and he’s all she can focus on.

When he finally pulls back, they’re both breathing hard and grinning like fools. 

“In case you were wondering,” Felicity says, “When you ask me, I’ll say yes.”

Oliver makes a desperate sound that she might almost describe as a  _whimper_ , and then he’s kissing her again, his hands dipping dangerously low. 

“C’mon,” Oliver says, releasing her so he can grab her hand and tug her along.

“Wait!” Felicity protests. “The coffees.”

With an eloquent roll of his eyes, Oliver turns back, rescues the coffees from the ground, offers her the iced latte, and grabs her hand, pulling her back towards the B&B.

“Where are we going?” she asks, mischievously. She knows damn well where they’re going. He gives her an arch of his eyebrow in answer, and Felicity laughs. “To the B&B for lunch.”

The look Oliver shoots her is approximately seven thousand degrees hotter than the sweltering summer air, and still Felicity shivers. “Yeah,” he answers, his voice low and gravely. “ _Lunch_.”

-30-


	33. MTV Reblog: olicity, Texas and thunderstorms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another little fic to assist the MTV reblog efforts. If you've got a tumblr, please **[go reblog this post](http://mtv.tumblr.com/post/122443593980/nominee-3-of-6-like-or-reblog-this-post-to-vote)!** :)
> 
> [pointless Sexing-Across-America roadtrip nonsense ahead. Because today I am thinking about Texas and thunderstorms and, man, do I miss watching storms there.]

 

Somewhere near a place called Granbury, out in the pancake-flat open spaces of rural Texas, Felicity notices a storm off to the west. They’re doing at least 75 on back roads, top down, cool breeze counteracting the heavy heat of the southwestern summer. Their destination is Dinosaur Valley State Park, but Felicity watches the deep grey clouds piling up on the horizon with a good deal of suspicion.  

Oliver follows her gaze to the wall of clouds, then glances at her. “Storm’s coming,” he says unnecessarily.

She gives him a good-natured eye roll. “I’m not  _that_  bad of an outdoorsman, Oliver,” she chides him. Then frowns. “Outdoorswoman? Outdoorsperson? They all sound kind of silly, to be honest. Maybe I’ll just call you my mountain man instead.”

Oliver huffs a laugh. “Lian Yu wasn’t really a mountain.”

She shrugs carelessly. “Looked mountain-y when I jumped out of a plane over it.”

He lifts their joined hands to his mouth and presses a kiss to her fingertips. “How would you know –- you had your eyes closed the whole time.”

“You mean the entire time I was  _plummeting to near-certain death_?” she counters, remembering that sickening lurch when Diggle launched them out of the probably-not-that-safe safety of the plane. “I did scream a lot, though,” she adds.

“That, I remember,” he answers. “Anyway, we’ve got a bit of time before the storm’s here.” The soft smile on his face when he looks at her still leaves Felicity a little breathless, even though she should be used to it by now. She should be immune to his new, sunshine-y happiness after two months. But she’s not – her stomach still flips, and her fingers still tighten around his. He squeezes back. “I promise, we’ll at least put the top up before it starts raining.”

“Well,” she teases, “if we beat the storm to the dinosaur park, there are campsites we can rent for $25 a night!” Two months ago, she would’ve been scared to tease him like this –- scared that he would react badly to the idea of camping because of his traumatic past on the island. Now, though, she knows him. Front to back, in and out. Well enough to know he is able to joke about certain aspects of his time on the island with her. Well enough to know his triggers and all the parts of himself that he’s managed to reclaim from the darkness.

“There are bugs, Felicity,” he teases right back. “Texas-sized bugs. But if you really want to camp out–-”

“No, no, no!” Felicity interrupts, grinning at his profile in the waning sunlight. When she glances up, clouds are beginning to form above them. There’s a distant rumble of thunder, and she snaps her attention back to the storm rolling in.

It’s closer now, the clouds impossibly huge in the sky. She grew up in the desert, so she’s used to wide open skies, to being able to see for miles and miles. But watching a massive storm system like this march towards them -– it’s amazing.

“Let’s go to the dinosaur park tomorrow,” Oliver suggests, easing off the gas and pulling over onto the dirt shoulder of the road. There’s a small driveway ahead, with the gate pulled shut. Oliver lets go of her hand long enough to pull past the driveway, then back in, leaving them facing the approaching storm head on. 

“Oh, we’re doing this?” she asks, grinning, as he activates the convertible roof. There’s a small whirring sound as the roof comes up and over them settling into place with two solid clicks. 

“We’re doing this,” he confirms, rolling the windows most of the way up. The wind has kicked up, and Felicity can smell the rain coming. She unfastens her seat belt and shifts closer to the console, bringing her legs up onto the seat. Oliver waits for her to settle, then leans over and kisses her soundly. 

Predictably, they lose themselves a little in each other. Felicity has no idea how much time has passed when a crack of thunder sounds close by. Oliver flinches against her, and she pulls back to her side of the console, breathing hard, noticing for the first time the very loud sound of a downpour outside the Porsche. It’s dark out, all the early evening sun drowned out by the vast expanse of angry grey clouds above them.

Felicity ignores all of that, her focus on Oliver, whose eyes are a little unfocused -– and not in a good way. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, seemingly shaking himself out of it. His palm flattens against her back, soothing her. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just-–” He tilts his head towards the windshield, toward the storm that is basically upon them. “It stormed sometimes. On the island.”

Felicity shifts back into his space, ignoring the console digging into her torso so she can lean her forehead against his. “Oliver, we don’t have to stay out here in the storm. We can-–”

“It’s just a storm, Felicity,” he interrupts, lifting a hand up to her face, skimming his fingers along her jaw. “I’m safe with you.”

She has to close her eyes to keep from crying. “You are,” she tells him, her voice rough with emotion. “You’re safe, Oliver.”

He nods minutely, the skin of his forehead shifting against hers, and she opens her eyes. He’s watching her with that awestruck look again. “C’mere,” he says, and leans in to kiss her.

They pass the storm together, kissing sometimes, watching the great streaks of lightning sometimes. It’s beautiful, in kind of a scary way, to see the vast power of nature. Fat raindrops pound on the car, and water pools into mini-streams racing across the blacktop of the road. The jagged lightning bolts provide flash bulb pops of light in the dark, foreboding atmosphere. She keeps her hands on Oliver, moving in slow, comforting patterns, soothing the small flinches whenever a loud crack of thunder hits. Whenever he tenses up, he reaches for her, kisses her, refocuses on their little world inside the car.

When the storm finally moves past, the dazzling light and deafening sound easing, she tilts Oliver’s head down and presses a kiss to his forehead. “See? You’re safe.”

He huffs a laugh, and pulls her into a hug made difficult by the console between them. “I know,” he murmurs into her ear.

-30-


	34. Prompt Response:  waiting impatiently for something, olicity then diggle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for dettiot, susannahmccormick, and anonymous, respectively. :)

~ ~ ~

Felicity squeezes Oliver’s hand more tightly, her foot tapping a fast-paced rhythm against the elevator floor. “C’mon, c’mon,” she murmurs, her gaze intently focused on the numbers  _crawling_  up as they ascend. 

She knows Oliver is apprehensive. It probably makes her a terrible girlfriend that she just can’t focus on that right now. Because she’s been waiting for months for this, and now that it’s here, she just can’t bear  _one more minute_. 

“Felicity,” Oliver says, and she can hear the suppressed amusement in his voice. “We’ll be there in thirty seconds. Can you hold it together?”

She whips her head around, leveling a very fake glare at him. She’s just about to snap something back when the elevator slides to a halt and the doors open. The high-pitched sound of excitement she makes should probably be embarrassing, but she doesn’t even care. Instead, she’s practically dragging Oliver down the hall. “Can’t you run six-minute miles?” she grouses. “Pick up the pace!”

Before she can knock, the familiar door is wrenched open, and John Diggle’s smiling face is there. Felicity lets go of Oliver and launches herself into Dig’s giant arms. “John!” she says, and, yes, she’s crying.

Dig’s arms tighten and he lifts her off her feet for a moment. “Welcome home, Felicity.

~ ~ ~

Diggle paces the living room, ignoring Lyla’s amused entreaties to just  _sit down_  already, because  _they’ll be here when they get here_.

But Felicity texted him twenty minutes ago, saying they were heading over, and, damn, Dig missed her.  _Them_. As much as he still needs to work some of his anger out with Oliver, he  _had_  missed the man’s presence.

They’d been gone for a little over five months, and as happy as he is that they’ve finally worked things out -– that Oliver’d finally tugged his head on just a  _little_  bit straighter when it comes to Felicity –- Dig just really,  _really_  missed them. 

When he hears the elevator chime down the hall, he stills, cocking his head to the side. Behind him, Lyla laughs softly. “Are you going to tackle them?”

He  _psshhh_ es her, but he’s already moving to the door. When he hears Felicity’s voice, he yanks the door open, and there they are. Holding hands. Oliver looking a little contrite, a little apprehensive, while Felicity just beams up at him like bottled sunshine. 

Dig opens his arms, and she flies to him. And Diggle feels a strange mix of happiness and relief, like the rest of his family is home safe again. So he hugs Felicity, lifting her off her feet, even as he meets Oliver’s nervous gaze and gives him a quick nod. They’re not fully okay, but they can work on their issues later.

Oliver nods back, his gaze shifting to the ground. 

Diggle squeezes Felicity just a bit tighter. “Welcome home, Felicity.” Then he sets her down and steps back, gesturing them in. “C’mon in.”

-30-


	35. Prompt Response: olicity, on the edge of consciousness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for amellthirst.

 

The first morning Oliver and Felicity wake together is a revelation. Because they spent a shortened night together, then weeks apart, then long, grinding days trying to save Starling and each other, and then twelve hours zonked out on her bed.

And so, they’ve never woken together before –- not like this. Oliver will soon learn that she does not wake gracefully under the best of circumstances. But this morning, he doesn’t know what to expect when he stirs in the bright light of midday, turning in her unfamiliar bed to find her familiar form sprawled basically face down beside him. She’s so still and quiet that he panics momentarily, before he hears the tiniest hint of a snore. Which means she’s breathing.

Oliver collapses back onto the pillows, shaking the mattress enough to jar her out of the deepest sleep.

“S’there lasagna?” she mutters.

Oliver goes still, trying to figure out what she’d said. After a long, confusing moment, he asks, very quietly in case she’s still asleep, “What?”

“Don’like it,” she answers on a sigh, shifting to turn her face away.

Oliver slips closer, running his palm down her bicep, then across her hip, before pulling her slowly back against him. He never used to be a cuddler, but this is all very, very new to him, and having her flush against his chest, having his arm wrapped around her waist –- it’s helping ground him. It’s helping him believe this is real.

He presses a soft kiss to her shoulder and she huffs, “Apple sauce.”

That’s when Oliver starts to laugh.  _Really_  laugh, like he hasn’t in months. Because Felicity is talking utter nonsense in a sleep-soaked voice, and it’s honestly the cutest thing he’s heard in his entire life. He can’t stop laughing, and the bed’s shaking with it, and that’s what finally brings Felicity fully awake.

She jerks upright, blinking owlishly as she looks around the room, then glances down at him and startles, “Eeep!”

He’s still chuckling, his arm slung low across her hips. “Morning.”

“What?” she says, still looking adorably puzzled, her hair a little wild around her face, the imprint of a wrinkled pillowcase on her chin. “S’a dream?” she wonders, then actually shakes her head, like she’s trying to clear it. “Wait.” She glances away, squinting around her room. 

“Not a dream,” he assures her, rubbing his hand along her side. “C’mere,” he says, urging her back towards him.

“Oliver,” she says, and she goes utterly still for ten of the longest seconds of his life. Is she regretting her heat-of-the-moment decision to try this with him? Is she about to kick him out of his favorite bed in the entire world after only one night with in it with her? And then she stares down at him, her expression softening to one of wonder. “Oh,” she says, nodding to herself. “Right.”

Felicity turns in his arms and sprawls on top of him, her arms snaking around his neck to hug him close. 

“Good morning,” he says again, pressing a kiss to her temple.

He feels her soft lips against his collarbone. “ _Best_  morning,” she corrects.

-30-


	36. MTV Reblog: olicity, paint chips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another little fic to assist the MTV reblog efforts. If you've got a tumblr, please **[go reblog this post](http://mtv.tumblr.com/post/122443593980/nominee-3-of-6-like-or-reblog-this-post-to-vote)!** :)
> 
> [pointless Sexing-Across-America roadtrip nonsense ahead. Because today I am thinking about Texas and thunderstorms and, man, do I miss watching storms there.]

 

It’s not like they can’t afford painters. But Felicity insists, and Oliver is almost never able to say no to her. Especially not now, after she’s agreed to live with him, after they put her townhouse on the market and bought a place,  _together_. This is everything he’s wanted since the island -- a  _home_  -- and if the woman who’s given him all of this wants them to paint their bedroom together, then he will damn well do it.

He will go to Home Depot with her, and join the teeming masses wandering through the glorified warehouse. He will look at a thousand paint chips with her, until she finds what she wants and they bring it home. He will even learn how to use painter’s tape and what primer is for if that’s what it takes to make their place  _home_.

When they reach the paint display, he’s a little overwhelmed by the options. Redecoration in his world had always involved decorators providing look books with curated colors and fabrics, fully realized options to choose from. This is -- this is honestly a bit overwhelming. 

And since anything will feel like home as long as she’s there, he decides to defer to Felicity. He knows she loves bright colors, and he watches her with a grin as she gravitates towards the purples. “For the bedroom?” he asks.

She shrugs, dragging her fingers along the color sample cards, moving towards the calmer blues. “No greens,” she decides with a smirk. “That color is no longer soothing to me,” she teases.

Oliver reaches for the softer purples and tugs a couple cards free, scanning the color names. “What about something like this?” he asks, tapping a soft, pale shade.

Felicity turns wide, surprised eyes to him. “You want a purple bedroom?”

He runs a hand down her spine, just because he can touch her this way whenever he wants. And he almost always wants. “Lavender,” he answers, angling the paint chip in the harsh fluorescent light. “Isn’t it supposed to help you sleep?”

She opens her mouth, then presses it closed in that way she has when she’s trying very hard not to laugh at him. 

“What?” he asks, brow furrowed. “I read that somewhere.”

“No, the--” She tips forward as she starts laughing, her forehead coming to rest against his collarbone. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she giggles helplessly against him. And it’s so charming that he finds himself laughing, not even knowing what he said that’s so funny.

So they stand there, blocking part of the paint chip display, and laugh in each other’s arms. How is this his life? He kisses her hair, his arms tightening around her.

When she calms, Felicity pulls back, a wide smile on her face. “I love you,” she says, reaching up to adjust her glasses.

“Now I  _know_  you were laughing at me,” he gripes, completely without heat. “What’s so funny?”

“The  _scent_  of lavender, Oliver,” she tells him, still grinning. “You know, like the actual flower? That’s what helps you sleep. It’s like aromatherapy.”

“Oh.” He supposes that makes more sense. How would a color do anything once your eyes were closed? “Oh. Okay.”

“Oliver?”

He grins down at her. “Yes, Felicity?”

She runs one teal nail down the center of his chest. “If we got a really cool, steel grey,  _manly_  duvet, do you--”

“I’m pretty sure there’s nothing you can do to make a  _duvet_  manly,” he interrupts.

Felicity rolls her eyes at him. “Okay, on a scale of bright fuschia flower print duvets to modern architectural lines in greys or browns duvets, if we--”

“We can get a grey duvet,” Oliver agrees. “That sounds nice.”

“Nice,” she repeats, exasperated. “Okay. So if there’s a non-girly grey duvet on the bed, how would you feel about lavender walls?”

Oliver huffs a laugh. “Well, I did suggest lavender.”

“That’s the spirit!” Felicity chirps, pulling the paint chips from his hand. “How do you feel about  _radiant lavender_? Or  _clematis_?” 

“Excuse me?” Oliver says, eyebrows lifting. 

“Clematis,” she repeats slowly. “Don’t make it dirty,” she warns. Then she frowns down at the paint chip in his hand “But I think it’s too saturated. I mean, we’ll need something closer to true lavender to help us sleep.” Her smirk is too cute not to be kissed.

“You are not going to let this go, are you?” he asks.

“Nope!” she answers cheerfully. “But I love the idea that even the paint on our walls will make me smile, because the fun we had picking it out. And Oliver?”

He leans closer, he can never get close enough. “Yes, Felicity?”

“Seeing your thoughtfulness on our walls? That will help me sleep better.”

-30-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post tags: #fun with paint chips  
> #this entire idea started with felicity torturing oliver by painting their rooms in short shorts  
> #and yet that is not at all what happened here  
> #also?  
> #my ex-boyfriend painted his room lavender because he read it would help him sleep  
> #i laughed at him for like three days


	37. MTV Reblog: olicity, first date (3x01) AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a really fun way to empty out my ideas that i wanted to write and never got around to files. Like [this first-date AU idea](http://machawicket.tumblr.com/post/114445375652/dettiot-sonrisaentejas-anyone-down-for-writing-a) from sonrisaentejas

 

If you’d asked Felicity prior to her date with Oliver if she thought she’d end up sitting on the floor of an ambulance, her feet dangling off the edge and an oxygen mask over her mouth, she would’ve -- well, okay, she might have  _entertained_  the idea. She’s not a total klutz or anything, but when she gets nervous, she can get a little... flail-y.

And going on a date with Oliver? That’s like DEFCON 1 in terms of nervousness.

So she certainly wouldn’t have ruled  _out_  a potential trip to the emergency room. (Or the sudden and intense need for supplemental oxygen when he shows up looking just unfairly gorgeous in a suit.  _For her_. Because Oliver in a suit is  _peak hotness_. Except for shirtless Oliver. Or tuxedo-and-suspenders Oliver. Basically _Oliver_  leaves her breathless sometimes.)

Regardless of Oliver’s wardrobe selection, Felicity needing medical treatment wasn’t high on her list of things that could go wrong. That list started with  _Oliver realizes he accidentally asked her on a date and tries to correct the error_ ; continued with  _peanut-infested restaurant causes her face to swell up_ ;and who could forget the many possible options for  _Felicity trips over her own feet and literally falls on top of Oliver, thus negating any sexy thought he’s ever had about her_.

It’s kind of a long list, actually. Possible Date-Related Calamities. (Felicity has had a lot of really terrible first dates.)

Whatever. Treated-by-paramedics isn’t something she’d been overly concerned about. Which, as it turns out, had been a miscalculation on her part, since here she is. Hanging out with a very nice paramedic named Arun. 

She’s okay, though. She’s  _so_ okay that she tugs the oxygen mask from her face and hands it back to Arun. He doesn’t seem too thrilled with her, but she gives him a reassuring nod. “I’m fine,” she tells him.

Her gorgeous, strappy silver heels, though, are… less fine.

With a sigh, Felicity reaches down and tugs the right shoe from her foot, holding it closer to inspect the – yeah –  _totally broken* heel_  “Dammit,” she mutters.

“Pretty sure that’s dead,” Oliver says from right beside her.

Startled, Felicity turns wide eyes to him. He looks -- he looks  _insane_. The explosive grease fire spread quickly, and in the commotion, he’d been the exact kind of hero she’s been telling him he is. He’d rushed  _toward_  the flames in the kitchen -- telling her to stay back, which she  _obviously_  ignored -- and helped fight the fire while she helped the maitre’d usher everyone out safely. Somewhere along the line he’d lost his suit jacket, and his tie, and so now he stands before her, his formerly crisp white dress shirt now partially unbuttoned, wrinkled, and sooty.

And there is soot on his face. Smudges and streaks, all up into his hair.

She grins at him. “You’re dirty.”

He smiles back, though she can read the tension in his face. “So are you.” His voice is a little rougher than normal from smoke inhalation. “Are you okay?”

Felicity runs a self-conscious hand through her hair, remembering with a pang of irritation  _just_  how long she’d spent getting ready for this date. And if Oliver’s appearance is anything to go by, she now looks like an insane, soot-covered hag.

So that’s great.

Just how she wants to look on her date with the most ridiculously handsome man she’s ever seen in real life.

“Felicity?” Oliver says, and she will never get over the way he says her name.

She feels a nervous flutter in her chest, but meets his gaze. “I’m good.”

He reaches for her, one hand trailing down her (soot-covered) arm to take her (soot-covered) hand in his. “Are you sure?”

“Aside from needing to spend some quality time in my shower, I’m–” She stops suddenly, wincing. “To  _wash off_ , I mean, not--”

“Felicity?” He sounds better – his voice is less tight and more amused. And if he weren’t laughing  _at_ her, she’d be really happy about this development. “Hey,” he murmurs, stepping so close his thigh brushes against hers. Which feels better than any non-sexual thigh-on-thigh action should feel. 

She makes herself open her eyes and -- it’s unfair that the smudges of dirt and soot all over his face just make his eyes look bluer and more heavenly. He’s _got_  to have a hideous portrait somewhere in the Queen mansion, right? This kind of thing isn’t human. “Yeah?” she manages, belatedly.

Oliver’s fingers softly, softly skim down the crown of her head, just barely enough pressure for her to feel his touch. “No concussion?” he asks.

Her instinct is to shake her head, but his hand is still just barely cupping her head, his thumb touching her jawbone as he seems to loom closer. When he arches his eyebrow, she realizes she hasn’t answered. “No,” she whispers. “No concussion. Are you okay?”

“Things are looking up,” he murmurs, and he is  _right there_  and she is staring up at him, wide-eyed, because what is happening? And then-- And then he’s kissing her. He moves even closer, leaning down, his free hand landing on her shoulder, and, oh, yeah,  _he’s kissing her_.

Felicity feels like she’s at least a half-step behind, because he was just all brood-y and inaccessible, and now he’s-- 

His tongue skims along her lips and she realizes that she is  _really not actually kissing him back._

With a start, Felicity leans into the kiss, opening for him, reaching for those familiar broad shoulders to bring him closer. He tastes like Oliver, but smokier, and she assumes that’s just the acrid scent of burnt wood that’s everywhere around them. His body is reassuringly solid --  _hard_  -- beneath her palms as she slides her hands down his back. He’s gentle with her, soft lips and just a hint of that stubble scratching along her chin to remind her that  _she’s kissing Oliver_. And it’s good.

It’s amazing, actually. Good doesn’t even come within a country  _mile_  of this. 

And she needs more. A lot more.  _Impossibly_ a lot more. 

Her dress is torn anyway, so she tugs on it, shifting it up enough so she can pull him closer. Oliver steps between her legs, his grip on her tightening, his hand pressing down her back to urge her closer, closer. The bed of the ambulance is raised, but not enough to even up their height difference, so her head is tilted way back and his way forward. It should be uncomfortable. It should mean they can’t get their bodies as close as they want. But somehow -- somehow  _everything_  is working. And things go from a heated-but-slightly-tentative first kiss to a wildly out of control makeout session very,  _very_ quickly.

“Uh, excuse me?” interrupts a voice. 

Felicity stiffens, leaning back to stare up at Oliver. “Umm...” She’s breathing embarrassingly hard.

Oliver is grinning down at her, one hand tangled in her hair, the other cupping her ass. He doesn’t look away from her even as he answers Arun the paramedic. “Sorry.” Then he leans in and says, “Not actually sorry,” against her lips. 

Before they can get carried away again, he straightens up, taking a deep, steadying breath and dragging his hands to more appropriate places. “Are you ready to get out of here?” he asks.

“Definitely!” Felicity answers, moving to stand up, but Oliver stops her with a hand on her waist. “Oliver, what are you--?”

“You don’t have shoes,” he says, shifting so quickly that he’s got one arm around her back and the other beneath her knees before she realizes his intent. “I’ve got you.”

Felicity doesn’t know whether to laugh at his ridiculous need to carry her when she can walk perfectly fine, or be really turned on by the easy way he lifts her into his arms. Instead of choosing she lets herself enjoy the way his firm chest feels pressed up against her as he walks over to his car. She thanks him with a kiss to the cheek, then slides into the passenger seat.

When Oliver gets in and closes his door, the cacophony of the scene outside fades, and it’s just the two of them, grinning at each other. Before he can put the key in the ignition, Felicity reaches out and touches his wrist.

“Oliver, will you come home with me?”

His mouth drops open a little, and he nods. “Of course,” he says, his voice full of that nervous tension again. “You need to shower, and food-- We should probably--”

“Oliver,” she interrupts, beaming at him, not even caring that she’s still a crazy-haired, soot-covered mess. “Come home with me.”

He blinks, and then he’s leaning across the console, one hand landing on her neck to pull her closer, and he’s kissing her senseless again. There’s no lag time for her -- she’s kissing him back just as fiercely, just as desperately.

Just as  _happily_. 

Because this could’ve gone a thousand different, terrible ways. But they’re here together and they survived and she doesn’t want to waste another second.

Oliver pulls back, his breathing uneven, and tips his forehead to rest against hers. “Yes,” he says, “I will absolutely come home with you.”

Felicity releases the fistful of white dress shirt she grabbed at some point, and pats his chest. “Good,” she answers. “Let’s go home.”

-30-


	38. MTV Reblog:  olicity, Character A proposes for the wrong reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All darlinginmyway‘s and lesliesbknope‘s fault y’all. For yesterday and then Jen posted prompts including: Character A proposes for the wrong reason. Some S4 speculation/spoliers included below.

 

Felicity stares at Oliver, at the (yes, okay, incredibly gorgeous) diamond ring in his hand, and shakes her head in disbelief. “Are you kidding me?”

There’s a collective sound of distress from the others in the new lair -- Diggle and Thea and Laurel -- but Felicity can’t spare them any of her attention. Not when Oliver flinches at her words, that familiar kicked puppy look making an appearance. 

But her stunned reaction is not entirely her fault -- how was she supposed to be prepared for this night? This night where the team had finally tracked down her father -- her  _father_ , whom she hasn’t seen for twenty years. This night where they all learned a lot of very uncomfortable facts about  _why_  her father was in Starling City -- and what he expected of  _her_.

As if he has any sort of right, coming for her years and years after abandoning her? As if he has  _any_  sort of  _claim_  over her, that--

“Felicity,” Oliver interrupts her panicky thoughts, and she snaps her gaze back to his face. His sad, hopeful, anguished face as he looks up at her. Because he’s  _kneeling_  in front of her seat. Because he’d walked back into the lair, made a beeline for his workstation, and then  _interrupted her mid-sentence to propose_. Out of nowhere. And in front of everyone. And now he’s doing it  _again_ , one hand warm on her knee as he watches her carefully. “I want to marry you.”

She is torn.  _So_  torn. Because  _of course_  she wants to marry Oliver and have a million tiny babies with him. (Okay, maybe more like two-ish? And definitely not for a couple more years at least.) But he’s not asking  _just_  because he loves and her and wants to marry her. He’s asking for other reasons, and that’s why she can’t bring herself to say yes. 

Felicity gulps in a steadying breath and reaches for him -- for his  _non-ring-holding_  hand, which she grips tightly. “Oliver, listen to me. My--” She stops, choking on the words, on the long-buried emotions.

Oliver steps closer. “Felicity,” he says. What he means is,  _I’m here for you, I love you, and I’ll never leave you_. And the thing is -- she  _believes_  him. She just can’t have this decision tainted by her past.

Somewhere off to their right, Diggle clears his throat. “Why don’t we give them the room?” he suggests, and then ushers Thea and Laurel out, over Thea’s mild protests. Felicity makes a mental note to thank him later, but she can’t tear her gaze from the look of trepidation on Oliver’s face.

“My father,” she tries again, her voice a little steadier. “Him leaving? It broke my heart. It broke my  _family_ , and that kind of pain...”  She shakes her head. “That hung over me for a lot of years.”

Oliver squeezes her fingers. “I won’t leave you, Felicity,” he vows. “Not willingly. Not ever.”

Blinking against the sting of tears, she nods. “I know that. That’s not--”  She laughs at herself, at her inability to find words when she needs them. She swipes a hand over her cheek, brushing away the tears she can’t quite control. “He left. He doesn’t get to have any say over my life anymore. He doesn’t get to make  _this--_ ” She lays her palm on his chest– “about him.”

Because in addition to being some kind of  _bad guy_ , it turns out her father’s long feud with the League of Assassins persuaded him that all of Ra’s al Ghul’s nonsense about bloodlines was actually meaningful. Which is why he’d shown up in Starling City and tried to put some sort of-- of--  _claim_  on Felicity, as his daughter. 

It made her skin crawl, and it made her spitting mad. 

And the thought of marrying Oliver so that  _his_  claim is superior to her father’s makes her feminist heart rage. She can’t. She  _won’t_  use Oliver as a shield to defend against something that her entire being  _rejects_  as invalid.

“Felicity, no,” Oliver says, tugging her closer, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Look.” He holds up the ring, and she can’t help but stare at it, at the way it sparkles even in the relatively low light of the lair. “I bought this two months ago,” he tells her, and she knows he’s not lying. “I want to marry you. That has  _nothing_  to do with your father.”

She leans closer and kisses him, reassuring him. “When were you going to ask me?” 

Oliver opens his mouth, then closes it, shrugging one shoulder. “I’m not-- I wasn’t sure how to... I don’t know.”

“It’s just the timeline he’s affecting,” she suggests softly. “Right? You’re asking  _now_  because of his claim.” The last words comes out with an angry growl, and since when did Felicity  _growl_? Clearly that’s Oliver’s influence.

“Felicity...”

“I love you, Oliver,” she says, and she’s stronger now, more sure of herself. “And when you ask me again -- when you ask me  _for real_? I will say yes.” She cups his cheek, kissing him again. “I want to marry you,” she whispers, keeping their faces close together. “But he doesn’t get to have  _this._ Do you understand?”

He looks down at the ring clutched tightly in his hand. “Yes,” he answers faintly, sitting back on his heels. Felicity can see his disappointment, see his hurt, and she slides off of her chair, moving to straddle him. He looks up at her. “I’m sorry I--”

She interrupts him with a kiss. “Nope,” she says, trying for a lighter tone. “You don’t get to apologize for loving me, or wanting to marry me,” she adds, and she can finally feel her nervous joy at this revelation. Because Oliver bought her a ring. Months ago. She throws her arms around his neck, leans into him. “Thank you for trying to protect me in whatever way you can--”

“Felicity--”

“--but he is a threat we’ll face as partners, okay?”

Oliver pulls back just enough to meet her gaze. “Partners,” he affirms. His arms are banded around her waist, one palm flat against her spine.

She hugs him as tightly as she can. “The ring is beautiful, Oliver,” she murmurs near his ear, and he huffs a laugh.

~ ~ ~

Four months later, Oliver is driving her home in the Porsche after picking her up at Queen, Inc. Felicity has slipped off her shoes and put her feet up on the dash, like she did a million times on their summer road trip. She’s talking a mile a minute about something -- a new Applied Sciences project she’s very excited about, he’s pretty sure -- and then she laughs. Smiling in response to her happiness, he glances over at her and just-- He just can’t wait another second. She’s beauty and joy and intelligence personified, and he needs to be married to her.

When he pulls over, he doesn’t notice that they’re in the parking lot of an aging hardware store. He doesn’t get down on one knee, doesn’t have some great speech planned out. Hell, he doesn’t even have the ring with him – the ring that he’s had for  _months_  now, waiting for the perfect moment. It’s nothing like he thought it would be – no candles, no soft music, no fancy dinner.

Instead, he takes her hand, tells her he loves her, and asks her to marry him in a voice that is strong and sure.

She says yes. She cries and then she kisses him and then he breaks several traffic laws getting back to their place to celebrate.

They don’t get around to retrieving the ring until the next morning.

-30-


	39. SDCC "domestic olicity" reaction: “There are things that Oliver takes to around the house much quicker than Felicity.” - Stephen Amell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There are things that Oliver takes to around the house much quicker than Felicity.” - Stephen Amell on Domestic Olicity [Clevver News SDCC 2015 Interview]

 

“Why are you holding my underwear?” Felicity asks. Or more like demands. In a high-pitched, shocked kind of voice.

They’ve been in their snug rental bungalow on the outskirts of Glenwood Springs (”Most Fun Town in America!”) for two days, most of which were spent out on the large wooden deck overlooking the dense green forest. They can’t see the river from here, but Felicity can hear the water rushing when they’re quiet. Which had apparently lulled her to sleep, because she’d awoken to her tablet lying on her stomach and her boyfriend MIA.

Only now she’s found him, and he’s standing in their bedroom, suitcases open on the bed,  _holding her underwear_. It’s weird and it leaves her a little panicky.

But Oliver just turns to her, four or five pairs of her underwear danging from his fingers, and asks, “Do these need to be in the delicate with your bras, or can they go through the regular cycle?”

Felicity blinks. “Uh...” she says, trying desperately to reconcile the words coming out of Oliver’s mouth.

Oliver grins at her, and his visible happiness is still new enough to take her breath away a little. “Laundry?” he prompts. “We don’t have to go to anymore creepy laundromats.”

“That one in Salt Lake City was  _super_  creepy,” Felicity agrees. Then she refocuses on the problem at hand. “Which is  _not_ \--” She shakes her head. “ _Why_  are you holding my underwear?”

“Sorting laundry,” he answers, as if that’s an answer.

“Oh!” She moves forward, reaching for the handful of panties, which he then lifts up and out of her reach. “What are you doing?”

He gives her that really unfair,  _I love you so much when you do cute, irrational things_  smile. “ _Laundry_. Like I said.” 

She makes an ineffectual swipe for her underwear. “I can do my own laundry.”

And now Oliver looks honestly puzzled. “Why are you freaking out about this?”

Her cheeks heat up and she shrugs. “I’m not freaking out.”

“You’re trying to start a tug of war with your dirty underwear,” he points out.

“Because,” she splutters, “you’re  _holding my dirty underwear._ ”

“Felicity,” he says, leaning close. “I’ve peeled most of these off of you -- some of them I dragged down your body  _with my teeth_. I’ve  _pretty_  well acquainted with your panties at this point.”

She considers that. It makes sense -- they’re moving into a more established phase of their relationship. But Oliver handling her dirty underwear is not something she’d contemplated before.  _Ever._  

Plus, laundry is  _not_  sexy, and what if–?

“Felicity,” Oliver says, stepping into her personal space. Her hands move automatically to his chest and she tips her head back. “I will be peeling your panties off with lust in my heart for the next fifty years. The least I can do is wash them for you.” And then he kisses her. One of those hot, wet, insistent, and somehow  _dirty_  kisses that always leave her breathless. 

When he pulls back, he licks his lips, and she actually moans. “Unfair.”

“I await your payback,” he teases, stepping back and turning his attention back to the laundry. “I’ll put them through on delicate, just in case.”

“This is weird,” she decides.

“Good weird?” he asks, looking up at her while he fingers the lace cup of her bright pink bra. She nods, feeling oddly turned on at the sight. He lets his gaze skim down her form. “Do me a favor?”

She very nearly says  _anything_ , but she learned her lesson that night in Reno. It was a  _good_  lesson, but she does not have time for that right now. So she gives him a skeptical look and asks, “What do you need?”

“Can you check the chili? It’s simmering, but I don’t like to leave it unattended.”

“You’re  _cooking, too_?”

His grin is positively smug. “I’m a man of many talents.”

-30-


	40. SDCC Towel Fight Nonsense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blame [Stephen Amell's weirdly specific headcanon about Oliver and Felicity's first fight being over her using his towel](http://machawicket.tumblr.com/post/124016002907/felicity-and-olivers-first-fight-over-a-fluffy). Adorable nerds.

 

“Felicity?”

“Yeah, Oliver, what’s-–? Oh.”

“Yeah.  _Oh._ ”

“No, I mean –- you’re not leaving much to the imagination with that tiny little towel, Oliver.”

“Funny story –- when I got out of the shower, my normal towel wasn’t where I left it.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah. You wouldn’t happen to know where my  _actual man-sized towel_  wandered off to?”

“Nope.”

“Felicity.”

“Oliver, you know I like the big towel. It’s so fluffy!”

“Yes. Yes, it  _is_  fluffy, which is why I bought it. For  _me_. When you bought  _the other eight towels_  that are all yours.”

“You look better in these.”

“Felicity.”

“You do! Look at you, all damp and glistening and hot.”

“I’m  _damp_  because this towel doesn’t have enough surface area to–-”

“Oh, my God.”

“What?”

“You’re missing the signs.”

“What are you talking about? What signs?”

“…”

“Oh. Wait. Sex?”

“You look  _really_  hot with that towel almost falling off of you. Like,  _unfairly_  hot.”

“I don’t get it.”

“What do you mean,  _you don’t get it_?”

“Felicity. I might as well be naked with as little as this towel is doing, and also we have sex a lot.”

“Yes, we do.”

“I mean, we have sex at least once a day.”

“Well aware.”

“During which time I am  _actually_  naked.”

“Much appreciated.  _Much._ ”

“So... why steal my man-sized towel-–”

“You need to stop calling it that.”

“–-to get me into a skimpy towel? You could just say, ‘ _Let’s have sex,’_ and I’d immediately strip.”

“You really don’t get it?”

“I really don’t, Felicity.”

“Those fuchsia boyshorts? You know the ones?”

“God, yes. The pink ones with the little design. I love those.”

“So you like to see me in those?”

“Absolutely.”

“Even though you see me naked all the time?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re saying this towel is like your pink panties?”

“Yup.”

“The ones that make it so I can’t keep my hands off your ass?”

“You can’t really ever keep your hands off my ass, Oliver.”

“That’s true.”

“So will you just  _let me have this_?”

“Felicity. Are you saying you want to ogle me in a way-too-small towel every time I get out of the shower?”

“Mmmmm, yeah. Basically.”

“In exchange for which you’ll wear your sexiest underwear for me and–”

“And you will promise not to actually rip them off of me? Yes.”

“You’re a very astute businesswoman, Ms. Smoak.”

“I’ll show you astute.”

-30-


	41. Dialogue-Only Drabble: Felicity & Thea, "I'm not cut out for this"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "I'm not cut out for this" Felicity and Thea
> 
> Digging up some rapidly aging dialogue-only prompts, because it’s been a week IRL and I need something light and palette cleansing… yeah.

 

“I’m not cut out for this, Thea. Maybe we should just–-”

“Felicity.”

“I mean, just look at the target. I’m  _obviously_ missing–-”

“Try again.”

“You’ve never reminded me more of your brother than you do right now.”

“I... don’t know what to say to that. So here. Try again.”

“Taskmaster.”

“Just  _try_ , Felicity.”

“I don’t... want to?”

“Is that a question or a statement?”

“Both?”

“C’mon, Felicity, just try again.”

“Why are you so convinced that I’ll be good at  _throwing knives_? That seems... unlikely.”

“Because, my evil dad isn’t good for much, but he can spot innate talent with pointy objects.”

“Pointy objects? Is this…  _Sunnydale_? And what does  _Malcolm Merlyn_  have to do with–-”

“Wow, you really  _do_  say his name with a growl.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing. Just something Ollie mentioned.” 

“That I  _growl_? I don’t  _growl_! Well, I mean, I hardly  _ever_  growl! And if I do, that’s really Oliver’s fault-–”

“You know, let’s not take this anywhere disturbing. Just–- Here. Throw this.”

“See? I’m terrible.”

“You’re overthinking it.”

“I am  _not_ –-”

“I can practically see you trying to calculate, like,  _air drag_  on a knife of this particular weight.”

“I... am not doing that.”

“Throw it with anger.”

“More and more of a sibling resemblance going on here, Thea.”

“You nailed some assassin in Nanda Parbat, right? With, like, your computer or something?”

“Oh. The–- Well,  _sure_ , I  _gently tapped_  him in the throat with it. But I’m not sure that counts since  _Malc–-_ I mean, your  _father_  was kind of  _impaling_  him at the time.”

“Huh. He didn’t mention that part.”

“No. He wouldn’t. And I don’t understand how one lucky frisbee toss makes you think I’d be at all proficient at this. Which I am clearly  _not_.”

“Felicity. Have you ever in your life  _thrown_  a laptop at–-”

“Tablet.”

“–-tablet.  _Whatever_. Have you ever thrown one at someone before?”

“Of course not! I don’t just go around  _damaging_  innocent electronics like–-”

“But in Nanda Parbat, when you needed to, you instinctively threw it and you hit the guy  _in the throat_. Right?”

“Well... I mean, Yes.”

“Because you  _know_  that tablet. You carry it around with you, and you know where it’s weighted, how much mass it has. And obviously when you threw it, you  _instinctively_  translated all of that into the motion of your arm.”

“Thea... I don’t...”

“You hit that target. You can hit this one.”

“Obviously I can’t.”

“You can. Just–- Hold the knife for a minute, Let it settle in your hand. Then picture some jerk who’s trying to cop a feel and  _throw_.”

“Thea.”

“Just humor me, okay? Picture Ra’s al Ghul’s face and–- Oh. Okay. Wow.”

“Thea! Did you-– Did you  _see_  that?”

“I–- yeah. That really worked.”

“Oh, my God, Thea, it’s almost a bullseye!”

“Aweome job, Felicity. really. Are you–-?”

“Taking a picture of my throwing knife victory in our super secret lair? Yes, I am doing that. And then I’m going to post it to Arrowgram.”

“I thought we weren’t calling it that?”

“I built it, I get to name it.”

“Hey, Felicity? When I said to picture Ra’s... were you picturing the guy Ollie killed or, you know...”

“Are you asking me if I was picturing your father’s face when I threw that knife?”

“Yeah, you’re right. Let’s just leave that a mystery.”

-30-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **tumblr tags** :  
> #i have a lot of headcanon around felicity's innate talent or throwing stars or throwing knives  
> #and i also have headcanon that she built them a secure social media network during the summer  
> #and that she keeps calling it arrowgram  
> #and they all keep groaning  
> #SO MANY HEADCANONS  
> #but seriously i would looooooooove for Thea and Diggle to teach Felicity throwing stars and knives  
> #while Oliver nervously frets in the background  
> #because FEELINGS  
> #but then she's really good  
> #and even Oliver has to admit it's a good idea  
> #AND THEN SHE STARTS WEARING A SEXY THROWING KNIFE GARTER BELT  
> #AND HE IS 100% INTO IT AT THAT POINT


	42. Dialogue-Only Drabble:  Felicity (with Oliver as her willing audience) using the drive back to Starling to come up with some tech speak code to keep things 'nice' while in company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> atartsboudoir asked: For the tech speak thing, I went the dirty route. I could imagine Felicity (with Oliver as her willing audience) using the drive back to Starling to come up with some tech speak code to keep things 'nice' while in company, eg ways to breach a biometric security system (F has a catalogue of her favourites, and while unimodal is great when you're short on time, sometimes you need a full multimodal system), something about challenge response codes. And rebooting of course.

 

“Oliver, we need a code.”

“A code? For what?”

“For sex.”

“I’m... not following.”

“We’re headed back to Starling, so we need a code. Or code words. For when we want to have sex.”

“Felicity. When I want to have sex with you, I tell you that I want to have sex with you and ask you if you’re in the mood to have sex with me. Is... that not working for you?”

“No! I mean–- No, that’s fine. That’s great. It’s working  _really well_. I mean, all of that is working well. God –-  _so well_. But–- That’s not-– It’s just that we’re going to be around other people now, so we’ll need–-”

“Felicity, we haven’t been hiding out in a secluded cabin the last five months. We’ve been  _around people_.”

“But not  _our_ people. Specifically, your sister, my brother, and your ex-girlfriend.”

“You consider Dig to be your brother?”

“You...  _don’t_?”

“Well, I mean, he’s like a brother to me, so I–-”

“Oliver, this isn’t an either/or situation. And-– that’s not the point. We need a code word for sex emergencies, so that we don’t traumatize our family and friends.”

“ _Sex emergencies?_ ”

“Well, not emergencies. Sex situations? Hmmm, no. Maybe-– You know what I mean, Oliver.”

“Like when you dragged me off of that hiking trail and shoved me up against a big rock.  _That_ kind of sex emergency?”

“Oh, you’re one to talk, Mr. No One Will Notice If We Just Sneak Into This Coat Check.”

“I really didn’t think they’d notice.”

“It didn’t have a  _door_ , Oliver. It was a glorified nook like ten feet away from the maitre’d.”

“I wasn’t paying much attention to anything other than your hand on my–-”

“Oliver. Focus.”

“I  _am_  focused. On sex emergencies. I’m more than happy to pull over and focus harder if you–-”

“Okay, that’s  _exactly_  the kind of code word we should  _avoid_.”

“That’s probably because it wasn’t a code word.”

“I have some suggestions.”

“You do.”

“Yes.”

“For sex emergency code words.”

“I like to be prepared. Which you know.”

“Sure. Just–- New context.”

“Yes, so, if we’re in the lair and we need to-–”

“Tear each other’s clothes off.”

“–-have some  _alone time_ , I’ll tell you I need to work on the biometric security system, and I need the lair cleared for that.”

“You think they’ll buy that?  _Diggle_?”

“We  _do_  have a biometric security system -– and let me tell you, I’ve had a lot of ideas on how to upgrade while we’ve been away. I tried to RDP into the system and–-”

“Felicity?”

“Right. Sorry. Tech wormhole. Okay, I need to run a full multimodal system diagnostic.”

“I... honestly don’t know whether that’s a code word or you’re still daydreaming about the biometric security system.”

“I do not  _daydream_  about–- Yes, okay, fine. I do. But the fact that you’re not sure means that’s a perfect code word!”

“And you don’t think Dig will catch on when we have to run full diagnostics a couple times a day.”

“We will  _not_  need to have sex a couple times  _in the lair_  every day.”

“I think you’re forgetting just how much time we’ll be spending in the lair. With our family and my ex-girlfriend.”

“I’m just saying we’ll have plenty of sex at home, Oliver. We’re only going to need these code words for days when you spend, like, forever on the salmon ladder, or come storming back down all angry and leathery and needing to blow off some steam.”

“Felicity, that... used to happen a lot.”

“You’re telling me.”

“Are you saying ever time I came back angry you wanted to jump me?”

“Oliver Queen, don’t play dumb so I’ll stroke your ego. Yes, I heard it. Moving on.”

“You know the first time I wanted to jump you in the lair?”

“Ooooh, I definitely do not. When I offered to buy you that bed?”

“Felicity, you are selling your sexiness way short if you think it took me  _that_  long to want to have sex with you.”

“If you say anything about bullet holes in laptops right now, I will–-”

“No, that was the first time you charmed me. The first time I wanted to push you up against the nearest surface–-”

“Oliver!”

“-–and find out what you taste like was when you overrode the door locks and I had to–-”

“Reboot the system?”

“Exactly.”

“You-– You thought  _that_  was, what -– sexy?”

“Felicity, I realize I was generally a dick then, and I  _know_  I was a dick to you that night. I tried to intimidate you, and–-”

“And failed.”

“Exactly. You were-– You just stood right up, got in my face, all five foot nothing-–”

“I am five-five!”

“You are tiny.”

“No,  _you_  are  _gargantuan_.”

“Whatever. You’re maybe half my size, but you got up in my face, full of spitfire and determination. It was –- You have no idea how sexy that was, Felicity.”

“I... Oliver, I don’t know what to say.”

“Well, then, I think we found our code word.”

“Oliver. You can’t be serious.  _Everyone, get out, I need to reboot my system. With Oliver_. That’s the opposite of subtle.”

“I’m telling you, they’re going to see right through any euphemism–-”

“Code word.”

“-–we try, because I’m far too accustomed to just  _reaching_ for you whenever I need to touch you. I’m not going to be able to stop myself. No matter who’s around.”

“Oliver?”

“Yeah?”

“Pull the car over.”

“What?”

“You need to reboot my system. Right now.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

-30-


	43. prompt response: olicity, vigilante/accidental vigilante seamstress AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Anonymous asked: ohhh if you want any ideas, I really liked that anons idea about the seamstress/vigilante fic :D_
> 
> I’ve gotten this a few times via anon requests, and so I was just going to rip off a quick little scene. But if you’ve been here a bit, you know I am a wordy damn bitch. So…

 

Felicity blinks once, then again, half-convinced that the tall, broad, _stupidly_  handsome man in front of her is a figment of her imagination. Because guys don’t just look like that in real life -– all mesmerizing sex dressed in well-fitting jeans and a leather jacket that looks soft enough to lick.

Not that she’s going to  _lick_ him. 

 _Obviously_. 

Because she did  _not_  dream him up. In fact, he’s still standing here, looking at her with a puzzled expression on his face. It’s a strangely good look on him –- the slightest pout of a frown on his lips, a bit of a furrow to his brow, and confusion in his really just  _crazy_ blue eyes.

“Can I help you?” she asks. And  _thankfully_  bites back the next twelve things that pop into her head. The dozen or so way she’d like to help him. God.

“Felicity Smoak?” he asks. “Hi, I”m Oliver Queen. I called about getting some custom-designed pieces.”

Oh.  _Oh_.

She nods, remembering his call. This is Vegas, sure, and she’s worked in her mother’s seamstress shop since she was old enough to sew and do basic math (and to be honest, she’d mastered the math far more quickly than the sewing). Since their livelihood revolves around dressing showgirls in Vegas, she and her mother have created basically everything. Felicity knows more than she would’ve ever expected about the proper construction of sequined nipple tassels, assless chaps, and tearaway satin booty shorts. 

 _Everything_. 

But this man’s call was the first time anyone’s asked her to custom sew some sort of sexy leather outfit. 

Well, he didn’t exactly  _say_ sexy, but his description basically spelled it out. He’d explained that he wants supple leather (to encourage touching, Felicity can only assume), something closely fit to his body (which, it turns out, is quite impressive), allowing for lots of movement (and if she’s now imagining just  _what kind_  of movements he’ll be making in that tight, supple leather? Well, she’s only human).

After years of helping her mother dress the female performers in most of the shows in Old Vegas casinos, plus a couple out in Reno, Felicity is getting her first crack at creating something really sexy for a man’s body. An aesthetically pleasing man’s body, no less.

Yay, capitalism.

And... she hasn’t actually answered him. Crap. “Hi,” she says.  _Lamely_.

Felicity resists the urge to slam her forehead into the countertop, but only just barely.

Oliver just stares down at her for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching, like he might smile. But he doesn’t. “You mentioned I’d need to get measured,” he says evenly, and that finally jerks her back into action.

“Right!” She really hates how easily she blushes –- her cheeks are burning with her embarrassment. “Right this way, Mr. Queen,” she adds, nodding towards the workroom in the back of the shop.

“Please, call me Oliver,” he says, stepping through the small entry way into the workshop which is, as per usual, basically wall-to-wall feathers. Or, more accurately, wall-to-wall costumes that are liberally –- maybe even  _gratuitously_  –- adorned with feathers dyed all the colors of the rainbow. Oliver looks wildly out of place moving amongst the joyfully sequined showgirl costumes. “This is... colorful,” he comments. 

“Take off your jacket and shoes, please.” Felicity indicates the small dais in front of the wall mounted mirror. “Oh, we should talk color, actually. Are you going for the classic black, like–-” She waves a hand around, searching for words–- “ _leather daddy_  look, or did you need something, you know...” She trails off, eyeing the chocolate brown leather jacket that is doing impressive things for him. “Sexier?”

His brow furrows as he kneels to unlace the brown boots he’s wearing. “No, nothing... Nothing like that. Just-– dark green.”

She takes a step back, evaluating him with a practiced eye. “Blue would be better,” she tells him. Because her mother is aces with construction and design, but Felicity’s got a natural eye for color that’s displayed in her work, and also her own wardrobe. And she can tell blue on Oliver would be devastating. “It would really make your eyes pop. Something like this,” she adds, grabbing a sapphire blue bustier from a nearby rack and holding it up next to his stubbled cheek. Without really thinking things through.  _Obviously._

Oliver lifts a very eloquent eyebrow at the fancy lingerie in his face. “I don’t really think that’s my style,” he says, sounding like he’s trying  _very_  hard not to laugh at her.

Felicity yanks the bustier away and tosses it over her shoulder. “Right,” she says, her breath coming a little too fast. “Not that. Obviously. But maybe like a navy,” she suggests. “It could really accentuate your–-” She presses her lips together briefly as he straightens back to his full height and looks down at her-– “attributes.”

Oliver shrugs one shoulder, and hums noncommittally. Right. Because he’s not asking for a  _fashion consult_. 

 _Pull yourself together, Felicity_.

Flustered, Felicity grabs a measurement card and the measuring tape from the side table and turns back to him. “Okay, can you–-?” She stops short when she sees him shrugging out of his leather jacket, leaving him in a snug grey t-shirt. It’s nothing special, but, wow, does it do really nice things for his upper body. His  _really well put together_  upper body.

“Do this for me?” she requests, lifting her arms out at right angles to demonstrate.

Oliver tosses his jacket onto a small chair against the wall and steps onto the dais, and sticks his arms out. “This okay?”

“Perfect,” she answers. “I’m just gonna-–” Why can’t she complete a thought around him? He’s not  _that_  good looking.

Well, yes, okay, when she steps right into his personal space to measure his neck, she realizes, he really  _is_  that good looking, and his skin is warm and smooth when her fingers skim across it, and–- 

 _Oh, my God, I’m sexually harassing a customer in my brainspace_.

Felicity concentrates  _very hard_  on writing the measurement on the card, taking a moment to give herself a mental shake. When she moves back toward him, she has herself  _totally_  under control.

Though she notices quickly that he smells really nice. She gets a lungful of his scent, actually, because measuring his  _very_  firm body requires her to get a little handsy with him. Which is fine for things like arm length and bicep measurements. 

(And, objectively, his biceps are  _to die for_. Objective observation.)

Felicity narrates as she goes, letting him know what she’s doing so he’s not surprised by her touch. Even when she basically has to bear hug him to get the tape around his chest for that measurement. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he may have huffed a little laugh at her then.

Stepping back, Felicity pauses to mark down the last couple measurements. Because she  _really_ does not want his handsomeness to dazzle her into forgetting so she has to measure him over and over again. 

“How long have you been doing this?” Oliver asks once she tucks the card back into her pocket.

“As long as I can remember, really,” Felicity answers. “My mom opened the shop when I was pretty little, so I grew up in here, helping out.”

“It’s nice,” he says, glancing around again, his eyes tracing the long racks of shimmering fabrics. “Very... shiny.”

She grins, circling around behind him to measure his back. “This is nice,” she comments, running the tape along his broad shoulders for a cross-back measurement. “I don’t get my hands on men very often.”

Oliver  _definitely_  laughs at that, and Felicity freezes, closing her eyes and counting down from three. 

“I mean,” she corrects, “that’s not-– I  _touch_  guys all the time! Well, not  _all the time_ , obviously, I just-–” She stops, mortified.

“It’s okay,” he says, and there’s amusement in his voice, but no mockery. When she opens her eyes, he’s half turned to look at her over his shoulder, and his smile is wide and genuine. He is just unfairly good looking, she decides.

“I just meant we almost always dress women,” Felicity explains. “Showgirls. So. Lots of women.” She touches three fingers to his shoulder blade. “Stand up straight.”

He hums, turning to face front again, but shifting his weight a bit as she slides the tape down his spine. 

Felicity marks down the last couple measurements, then circles around to his front again. “You must work with a lot of women, too,” she remarks absently. 

“What do you mean?” Oliver asks.

Felicity, who was about to draw the tape low around his hips, thus bringing her hands dangerously close to some places she shouldn’t even be  _thinking_ about, stops short and looks up at him wide-eyed. “Oh,” she says. “Well, because the–- the-– you know, close-fitting leather pants,” she explains, simply repeating back what he’d told her on the phone. “Nothing that will restrict movement, and you need to be able to, uh... to  _dress_ quickly. Plus a tailored leather jacket, same requirements.”

Oliver stays stock still, staring at her. She doesn’t know quite what to make of it, so she turns her attention back to measuring the circumference of his  _very_ muscular thighs. And trying to control her breathing so she doesn’t sound like a gasping sexual pervert. 

She trails her fingers down the outside seam of his jeans, contemplating optoins for him. “For the undressing,” she muses, “have you considered tearaway seams?” She glances up at him, but he’s still kind of...  _gaping_  at her? She rushes to explain. “You know, so you just-–” She gives his jeans a tug–- “and they come right off. I’ve never tried that with leather, though. Usually the breakaways are on something lighter -– a satiny fabric, or–-”

“You think I’m a  _stripper_?” he splutters.

Felicity freezes, her hand grabbing onto his jeans without her permission. She releases her hold and takes one step back. Then she shrugs. “Yes?”

“I’m–-” He shakes his head, letting out a nervous chuckle. “I’m not a stripper.”

With what is probably a very skeptical look on her face, Felicity nods. “Okay.” But quite frankly, the other options that come to mind with those requirements –- close fitting, maneuverable leather, easy on/off –- are even more inappropriate for her to be thinking with him standing  _right here_. “Whatever you’re using the suit for is...” She shrugs nervously, not sure how to exit this conversation gracefully. She decides on: “People’s private lives are their own business.”

Oliver seems unable to respond, which she takes as an agreement to  _stop talking about this immediately and get back to measuring him for his totally not a stripper leather outfit and definitely not a thing he needs for wild, leathery sex parties._

Taking an unsteady breath, Felicity steps forward and kneels on the dais right in front of him. 

Oliver’s voice is strangely high when he demands, “What are you doing?”

“Inseam,” she says, gamely ignoring the burning in her cheeks. Because she has to measure from the floor to his... well, to his... the books euphemistically say  _the lowest part of the crotch area_. What that means is that Felicity has to measure the distance between the floor and Oliver’s junk.

Which means touching the aforementioned junk.

“It’s not a sex thing,” Oliver says, as she carefully draws the measuring tape up the inside of his leg, 

She stops just above his knee to look up at him. “I know -– it’s just to help with the length of your pants,” she says.

“No, I mean-–” Oliver breaks off, closing his eyes for a beat. He blows out a slow breath, then looks down at her. “I didn’t mean this,” he says, gesturing to her hand on his thigh. “I meant the leather outfit. It’s not a sex thing.”

Felicity nods and turns back to her work, trying really hard to keep her expression neutral as she brushes her hand against him. Trying even harder to ignore the way he hisses quietly in reaction.

She wants to apologize, but in this particular case, it’s her actual job. So she pushes to her feet. “Just one more measurement,” she tells him. Then she frowns at his crotch. Because it’s the only thing left to measure. Like, distance from front waistband to back waistband. Between his legs.

“Felicity?” Oliver asks, his voice strained, and she realizes she’s just been standing there, staring at his fly like a total pervert. 

She flushes crimson. 

She can feel it in her cheeks, and her forehead and her  _chest_. Determined to power through her embarrassment, she reaches for his belt buckle, placing the end of the tape there. “Can you hold this?”

Oliver moves his hand over hers quickly, and they both hesitate for a moment, eyes locked. “Like this?” he asks, his voice weirdly husky.

“Yeah,” she agrees, nodding quickly. She moves to his side, passing the tape from one hand to the other between his thighs. When she eases the tape up to the middle of the waistband of his jeans, she is temporarily distracted by his ass. His very nice ass.

Blinking, she checks the measurement, and says, “Okay, you can let go.” When he drops the tape, she tosses on the side table and finishes filling out the measurement card. She gnaws on the end of the pen absently as she double checks her work, making sure she has all the right measurements, and that the numbers aren’t crazy, since her mind has been at least half on the sheer aggressiveness of his handsomeness this whole time.

“Felicity?”

She whips her head around, belatedly pulling the pen from between her lips. “Yes?”

“The suit,” he says slowly, his expression strangely solemn. “It’s not a sex thing, or for stripping. It’s–- I need-– The movement, it’s so I can fight.”

Felicity narrows her eyes, studying his face. He doesn’t appear to be lying. But why would he need a custom-designed leather suit for fighting? Boxers wear those dumb, high-waisted shorts-–  _Oh._ ”Wrestling!” She smacks the heel of her hand against her forehead. “You have a color scheme picked out and everything. I should’ve guessed that – I mean, you have the body for it!” 

“What?” he asks.

“For wrestling,” she repeats, bringing one arm up to flex her not-terribly impressive. “You know, like this –- _Rrrrr_.”

He grins at her. “Something like that.”

“I’m  _so_  sorry if I insulted you with the stripper thing, and then–-”

“You didn’t,” he interrupts. “In fact...” He trails off, shifting his weight a little.

Felicity tilts her head, watching him closely. “Oliver?”

“Do you think...” He frowns, his gaze skipping away from her, and then back. “Would it be possible to discuss the-– the design over dinner?”

Felicity blinks. Is auditory hallucination a thing that can just happen? “Are you asking me on a date?” she demands, skeptical and hopeful in equal measure. Because ridiculously handsome, ridiculously built men don’t just wander into her mother’s seamstress shop and ask her out.

That’s really not a thing that happens.

He glances down at his sock-clad feet, the movement almost bashful. “Would you like to go to dinner with me?”

Except apparently it’s a thing that is actually happening? Felicity studies Oliver, a gorgeous wannabe wrestler with a possible leather fetish?

Felicity grins. “Yes.”

-30-


	44. Normal Doors Dialogue-Only Drabble: olicity, FaceTiming with fishnets-and-lace!Felicity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Um, yeah.

“Felicity, what–-? Oh, my God.”

“Yeah, but -–  _where are you_?”

“What–-? What are you-–?”

“Oliver. You’re supposed to be walking through that door in about ten minutes, are you not?”

“But–- Wait, but–-”

“Oliver.”

“Yes?”

“ _Why_  are you face-timing me from what looks  _suspiciously_ like the Central City train station?”

“I was-– The train-– I-– I missed the train.”

“Really.”

“Y-– Yes?”

“You were late and you missed the train  _three hours ago_ and you are just letting me know this right now?”

“Um...”

“While I’m here. Alone. At home. In  _fishnets_. And  _leather._ ”

“Felicity, you-–”

“ _Waiting for you_.”

“But–-”

“Yeah, nope. No fishnets for you, mister.”

“Wait, Felicity, you look  _amazing_. I mean–-”

“Since you’re not going to be here until after dinner anyway, Oliver, you’re in charge of picking up dessert. Something super-chocolate-y.”

“Anything you want, Felicity, I swear. Just–- Can you  _please_  leave that on until I get home?”

“Oh, no, Oliver. You’re going to have to earn this back. You’re going to have to work  _hard_  for another opportunity.”

“Fel–-”

“Chocolate and oral sex, Oliver.”

-30-

_I’m really sorry._


	45. Normal Doors Drabble:  olicity, Felicity wearing leather and fishnets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [CAN'T STOP WON'T STOP](http://machawicket.tumblr.com/post/126030761737/emily-bett-rickards-in-normal-doors-felicity-i)

 

“Felicity, I can’t believe you want me to wear leather pants to Thea’s party,” Oliver complained, tugging on the waistband a little as he headed toward the living room. Sure, he wore leather pants as the Green Arrow, but to parties? As Oliver Queen, mostly reformed former party boy, current quiet resident of Starling, and proud boyfriend of Palmer Tech CEO? Leather pants were not really his aesthetic. Besides-– “My sister is the hostess. Don’t you think that makes it a little–-”

Oliver stopped talking. And breathing. And doing absolutely anything that could distract one iota of his attention from the vision of leather and fishnets and fuck-me pumps standing before him.

With a smirk. 

“A little what, Oliver?” she asked, her tone indecently innocent.

“Uh...” he said, watching her slowly untangle a thin red ribbon from her wrist, standing saucily with one hip cocked. “What...?”

“It’s a leather and lace party, Oliver,” she pointed out. “Of course you should wear leather to a–-”

“Wait,” he interrupted, starting to gather his wits. Sort of. “Come here.” Because his wits were pretty intent on getting her to the bedroom and taking a good, long time to appreciate Felicity in that outfit. And fuck the party. “Where did you get this?” he murmured, stepping into her personal space and trailing his fingers down her leather-clad sides. “It’s–- You look–-” He shook his head, unable to voice it. 

He decided to kiss her instead. Passionately. 

And then get a hand on her ass –- God, he could feel the heat of her flesh through the fishnets –- and tug her right up against him. Her bare arms slid around his neck, that damnable ribbon smooth against his skin, and she gave as good as she got. 

As soon as he pressed her back against the wall, she ducked and scooted under his arm and away. “We are  _not_  doing this right now,” she told him, walking towards the kitchen island where she kept her purse, and,  _sweet Jesus_ , the view from behind nearly made him swallow his tongue. When she gave him a smug little grin over her shoulder, he knew she was torturing him on purpose. “Come on. We have to be at Verdant in thirty minutes.”

Oliver blinked. “You’re–- You’re wearing  _that_? To Verdant?”

This time, the expression on her face when she looked at him was less amused and much,  _much_ more irritated. “Excuse me?”

Sensing imminent danger, Oliver attempted retreat. “No, I just meant-–”

“What part of  _leather and lace party_  are you missing, Oliver?” she demanded. “And besides, this is no more revealing than wearing a bathing suit.”

“That is  _not_  like a bathing suit,” he argued. Inadvisedly. But in his defense, his brain was operating without the required amount of power at the moment. Oliver shifted, hoping to ease the pressure of these leather pants. It didn’t work.

Felicity advanced on him slowly, which only made both problems –- his erection and her irritation -– much more urgent. “Do you remember my bikini, Oliver?” she asked sweetly. “The one you bought me in San Diego?”

Oliver nodded so much and so quickly he felt absurdly like a bobblehead. “The purple with the–-”

“Yup,” she interrupted.

“I remember,” he answered, his mind ever-so-helpfully supplying a dozen images of Felicity playing in the waves, Felicity lying on a towel reading, Felicity walking towards him on the bright hot sand, Felicity diving into the hotel pool. Felicity in nothing but a couple scraps of purple fabric and a wide, happy smile. “Vividly,” he added. “But this,” he said, letting his eyes skim the black leather on her curves, “is  _not–-_ ” 

“If you would like the opportunity to peel this leather off of me when we get home later,” Felicity interrupted, “you should reconsider finishing that sentence.”

“But–-”

“Don’t,” she warned.

For a moment, Oliver considered how the conversation would go if he asked her to cover up, and realized he was being kind of a dick. And also thinking primarily with his dick. Which was hard not to do when she was standing in front of him with that delicious body so artfully showcased.

But no matter how many people at this stupid party appreciated just how smoking hot his girlfriend was in that outfit, she would be coming home (and coming) with him. Only him. 

“Okay,” he managed, his tone just a little on the raspier side of normal. “Fine. We’ll go to Thea’s.”

To her credit, Felicity looked incredibly suspicious as he ushered her towards the door.

“We will,” she echoed, sounding a little skeptical.

“Definitely,” he answered. Because if she thought he was the only one who was going to be tortured with little previews all night, she was very, very wrong. He was going to reward her for that outfit when they got home, sure, but until then? Oh, until then, he was going to work her up, turn her on, and make her wait. Because _turnabout is fair play_.

As she closed the door and headed for the car, Oliver fell into step beside her. He stayed plastered to her as she paused at the driver’s side door, leaning down slightly to unlock it.

Oliver very deliberately let his fingers trail along the curve of her ass. When she shivered, he leaned right up against her and whispered in her ear. “This night is going to be a lot of fun.”

-30-


	46. Prompt Response: olicity, pretending to hate each other AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> susannahmccormick asked: I thought about sending you "soulmates au" just to be mean because of our conversation this weekend, but I'm a nicer person than that so instead how about "pretending to hate each other au"?
> 
> This prompt made me snicker, Sus. :) Two quick things: (a) Also got this prompt from darlinginmyway and newyorkinlove, and (b) huge thanks to callistawolf and dettiot for helping me get my arms around this. All blame for poor execution remains with me. ;)
> 
> Note: I tried an angsty-ish thing (too sadface), then a middle of the road version (boooooring), and now this (… uh, hopefully doesn’t suck? I AM SO GREAT AT SELF-PROMOTION, Y’ALL!).

 

 

“Oh, really?” Oliver managed, trying like hell to inject some kind of interest into his voice. “That sounds... uh, fun.” And failing.

“You are truly  _terrible_  at this,” Diggle commented. “How did you get a reputation for being a playboy?” But since he was on comms, he wasn’t close enough for Oliver to glare at –- or possibly elbow in the ribs.  _Hard._  

So Oliver kept his focus firmly on the clingy woman at his side, who was  _still_  talking about some inane adventure (her word, definitely not Oliver’s) she’d had bringing her little handbag-sized dog into a high-end boutique. The story wasn’t funny in the first place, and wasn’t nearly interesting enough for her to  _still_  be talking about it, but Oliver was pretending to be himself (he could feel Diggle rolling his eyes at that thought). 

Or, more accurately, he was pretending to be the self that people expected of him,  _still_ , even though he’d been out of the spotlight for more than a year, and happily, devotedly with Felicity for half that time. He would  _never_ be cheating playboy Ollie again, but for the foreseeable future, he was going to have the play the part –- at least publicly. Which meant being seen with lots of women. 

His seventeen-year-old-self would never  _believe_  how unappealing that thought was to Oliver.

Particularly since the kinds of women who were interested in  _Oliver Queen_ were not, at all, the type of women that interested Oliver these days. But he soldiered on, humming his agreement at the appropriate points in the overly long dog-related story, and forcing a smile when Toy Dog Flirt laughed uproariously at her own terrible behavior. Because the young, selfish, thoughtless version of himself had suffered through some truly pointless conversations in service of getting, well,  _serviced._

Difference was, he and Tommy had always made sure to pregame appropriately. Tonight Oliver was on duty, and sober.

And hopelessly in love with his girlfriend, whom they were trying to establish to the world at large –- and, more importantly, to Damien Darhk -– was his  _ex_ -girlfriend. 

Nothing to see here. 

 _Certainly_ no one to focus on or, God forbid,  _target_.

Felicity’s safety was the most important thing, so Oliver was willing to be pawed at by women who loved their tiny little dogs, and wanted a sugar daddy or a trophy husband. He would just grit his teeth and–-

“Oliver,” Felicity greeted. Or, really, more like spat. It stung a little to hear her disdainful voice aimed at him.

Oliver turned quickly, dislodging the Toy Dog Flirt, and nearly choked on his own tongue when he saw Felicity. 

He knew immediately she’d gone all out. Blonde hair in beachy waves (reminding him of the three weeks they spent at a tiny beachfront place last summer, having sex basically all the time), a smug smile on her pink lips, a mouth-watering-ly tight red dress that did great things for her breasts, and those silver fuck-me heels that he’d bought her at a tiny shoe store somewhere in the Rockies. He’d fucked her against the wall when they got home that day, peeling every stitch of clothing off of her, and begging her to leave the heels on. 

“Felicity,” he breathed. And then winced, because he sounded every inch the lustful, loving boyfriend just then, when he was _supposed_  to be the careless, cheerfully set free  _ex_ -boyfriend instead. He cleared his throat. “Uh, hi. I-– I didn’t expect to see you-–”  _looking like that_ –- “here.”

From the quirk of her eyebrow, Oliver knew Felicity’d chosen her outfit –- and particularly those shoes –- on purpose. Although it had been relatively easy to get Diggle on board with Oliver’s fake-breakup-to-protect-Felicity plan, Felicity had told him -–  _repeatedly_  -– that he was being an idiot. Apparently her eventual agreement had come with an unspoken promise to torture him by reminding him of what he was (publicly) giving up.

The thought made his chest ache a little, because this was starting to feel a little too real for him. How many more nights would he have to watch her from afar? How many hours of standing near her without touching, without even interacting.

How long would he have to withstand her glares and what he was just  _now_ realizing was genuine anger.

Sometimes, his inexperience with real, committed relationships came back to bite him in the ass.

Felicity tilted her head just slightly. “I hope you’re having a terrible evening,” she said, her tone just a tick too sickly sweet for his tastes.

His heart dropped a little before he reminded himself that they were playing at being broken up. With a small measure of distaste, Oliver tugged Toy Dog Flirt closer, looping his arm around her waist. He gave Felicity what he hoped was a careless shrug. “Things are looking up,” he said. But considering he was staring at Felicity like he wanted to drag her into a dark room, he probably didn’t really sell the line as being about the woman whose name he’d long since forgotten.

In his defense, he really  _did_  want to drag Felicity into a dark room.

“So terrible,” Diggle observed via the comms, and Felicity covered her answering laugh with a cough. 

“Are they?” Felicity drawled. 

Toy Dog Flirt snuggled closer to Oliver’s side, and he resisted the (very strong) urge to push her away. “I like to think so,” she said in a cloying, high-pitched, babyish voice, which Oliver assumed was supposed to be sexy.

It really,  _really_  wasn’t. Even Ollie hadn’t been attracted to that particular brand of flirting.

Still, he fought every instinct and let the arm around Toy Dog Flirt’s waist slip lower, his palm landing on her hip. “Absolutely,” he managed.

Felicity’s eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly, and her gaze dropped to his hand lying too-familiarly on another woman. And, yeah, he  _really_  hadn’t thought his whole plan through, because he would never, ever cheat on Felicity, and she  _knew_ that, but it hadn’t occurred to him how much it would hurt her to watch him  _pretend_. 

He let himself imagine the opposite –- watching Felicity laugh and flirt with another man, seeing her hand on another man’s arm or shoulder, watching helplessly as another man shot her appreciative looks and maybe slipped his hand down past–- 

Fuck. This was...  _really_  a terrible idea.

Before he could figure out how to extricate them from his stupid plan, Felicity turned her gaze to Toy Dog Flirt. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up with this one,” she said, expression full of faux concern.

“Why’s that?” Oliver asked. This time, his irritation with the situation came through in his tone, and he congratulated himself for making it believable. Kind of. Though to be honest, it was probably mostly  _dread_  that was audible in his tone.

Felicity dropped her voice to a whisper and leaned closer to them. “Kinda selfish in bed,” she said, with a knowing glance at Oliver’s crotch. “Better hope you get yours before he gets his, you know what I–-?”

“Felicity!” Oliver snapped, and he was reaching for her before he realized what he was doing.

And then Digg, Felicity, and Toy Dog Flirt were all talking at once, variations on  _what the fuck are you doing, Oliver_? but he kept moving. The only slight positive was that Felicity came along willingly enough.

“Oliver,” Diggle’s voice was full of exasperation. “What did we tell you about this plan?”

“That it was stupid,” Oliver grit out.

Felicity snorted behind him, and he took an abrupt left, pulling her into the bustling kitchen and nearly upending a server with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. 

“Oliver, what–?”

But he spotted a tiny alcove, between an industrial fridge and a shelving unit of baking supplies, and pulled her out of the path of the servers and cooks. “Felicity, I changed my mind,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

Diggle laughed outright over the comms. “Shocking.”

Oliver kept his focus on his –- oh, shit -–  _very angry_ girlfriend. She was glaring at him, her lips pressed tightly together. “Felicity?”

“What changed your mind?” she demanded, arms crossed, which did distracting things to her cleavage. “Hey,” she snapped. “If you think you can feel up another woman and then drag me in here for a quick-–”

“Please don’t finish that sentence,” Diggle begged. “You’re still on comms.”

“I didn’t,” Oliver said. “I swear, Felicity. I don’t care about–-” He waved a hand around, but still had no idea what her name was–- “that woman.”

Felicity narrowed her eyes. “I’m not sure that’s better, considering you had your hands all over her.”

“Guys,” Dig prodded. “We’re supposed to be tracking–-”

“I didn’t!” Oliver protested. “Felicity, you know I would never, ever cheat on you. I love you. The whole point of this was to keep you  _safe_.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that I want to be  _with you_ , and whatever level of safety that entails, I will handle it.” And, God, she was gorgeous when she was angry –- her cheeks flushed with passion, her normal animation turned up another degree.

“I know you can handle it,” he said, settling his hands on her shoulders. “This was more about what  _I_  can handle, but-–” He squeezed her shoulders to forestall her protests-– “I’m trying to get better. I swear I am, Felicity.”

She glared up at him, her eyes wide and impossibly blue. After a long, silent moment, she softened a bit. “Get better  _faster_ ,” she warned him, and it wasn’t forgiveness, not quite yet, but it was an offer to move from outright fighting to Oliver making it up to her.

He let out a relieved breath and skimmed his hands down her arms, tugging at her elbows until she uncrossed her arms and let him tangle their hands together. “I will,” he murmured, his voice low and loaded with intent. “I promise, Felicity.”

“Hmmph,” she answered, but she was leaning into his body now, and he let himself breathe a little easier. “You were kind of an ass the last few days,” she told him, even as she took a half step so their bodies were touching. “You have a  _lot_ to make up to me.”

Oliver smirked. “How about I start with proving -–  _again_  -– that what you said to that woman is absolutely untrue. Selfish in bed, my ass.”

“Oh, God,” Diggle muttered. 

But Felicity just grinned at up Oliver. “I knew you wouldn’t let that  _egregious_  lie stand.”

“Guys,  _you’re still on comms_.” 

They’d had a goal to accomplish at this party, but Oliver no longer gave a fuck. His attention was fully focused on making things up to Felicity. So he quirked a suggestive brow at her and said, “Hey, Dig, why don’t we call it a night.” He leaned in, nuzzling Felicity’s neck before pressing soft kisses to her skin, letting his stubble rasp against her until she gasped.

“Good call,” Dig answered with gusto. “I’m pleased as punch that you guys have a satisfying sex life, but please, God, never tell me anything else about it.”

“Mmmm,  _very_  satisfying,” Felicity corrected.

Dig made a strangled noise, and then the comms clicked off.

“Felicity,” Oliver murmured, nipping at her skin, “this party is conveniently located in a hotel ballroom.”

“It is,” she agreed, her hands slipping beneath his suit jacket and around his waist, fingers pressing into his lower back and urging him closer. 

“I don’t think I can wait until we get home,” he admitted, letting his palms drift down to that delicious ass of hers.

She turned her head, hot breath ghosting across his ear. “I like the way you think.” 

Oliver laughed against her skin. “Thank God,” he said, taking a step back and willing himself back under control. “Let’s go check in.”

Felicity tilted her head and gave him a smug smile, then pulled a keycard from her cleavage and waggled it between two fingers. “You always forget you’re dating a genius.”

Oliver swept her up in a hug, squeezing her as tightly to him as possible. “I fucking love you,” he said, overcome by the sheer volume of his feelings for her.

She nodded against him. “I know, but you should try to prove it anyway.”

Oliver set her on her feet with a flourish, then offered her his arm to escort her to the elevators. “Challenge accepted.”

-30-


	47. Prompt Response: olicity, did you try ripping it out of the wall first?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dust2dust34 asked: Olicity! "Did you try ripping it out of the wall first?"

 

“Felici–-”

“Wait, wait – when I say  _rip_ , I was being, you know,  _exaggerate-y_.”

“I... don’t think that’s a word?”

“I’m just a  _little_  concerned at the news that there’s no internet at the loft while I’m not there to fix things. That is–-”

“A crisis. Yes, I’m aware.”

“It  _is_  a crisis, Oliver. But I meant to ask did you  _gently unplug_ it before declaring it dead. Please tell me you didn’t go all Hulk on the poor modem –- it hasn’t done anything to us. Well, I guess, except deny us the precious, precious internet. Which is basically my home.”

“Felicity, I-–”

“It’s probably the router anyway. I mean, sure, I gussied that thing up myself and it was truly a work of technological art. But it’s  _also_  3 years old at this point. And, boy, has that router seen some things. Some very hack-y things. Did you try turning it off and turning it back on?”

“Felicity. Breathe.”

“I’m completely calm.”

“Yes, that was definitely one of your trademark  _completely calm rambles._ ”

“I just–-”

“Felicity! The internet is fixed. Or the wifi is fixed, I guess, since it-–”

“Wait, really? You-– you fixed the router?”

“In the limited technical sense that I did, in fact, power cycle it and now it’s working... yes, I fixed it.”

“Oliver Queen, you are getting  _so_  laid as soon as I get home.”

“Well, I mean, I’d hoped that was the case  _regardless_  of the outcome with the router.”

“You averted a technological crisis and you should be rewarded. Also, I think you’re gonna need to describe what you did to me.”

“I’d rather describe what I’d like to do to you.”

“You know what? We can just grocery shop tomorrow. I’ll be home in ten minutes.”

-30-


	48. Prompt Response: olicity, Felicity & Oliver's first grocery shopping trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Felicity and Oliver go grocery shopping for the first time

 

 

“No.”

“Felicity.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Felicity. My love. You are being a  _little_ –-”

“Finish that sentence. Really. Please finish it.”

“ _Totally_ rational.”

“Agreed.”

“Felicity…”

“It’s gross.”

“I’m not going to force you to  _eat_ it, I just want it in the house so  _I_  can–-”

“Eat something that tastes like bitter mud?”

“Bitter  _mud_? Really?”

“I am firmly Team Spinach.”

“I don’t mind spinach–-”

“No, Oliver, it’s too late to save it. You’re Team Kale, I’m Team Spinach. Never the ‘twain shall meet.”

“We  _met_  about forty-five minutes ago–-”

“Oliver!”

“-–and I don’t remember any vegetables being involved. Or any food products.”

“Oh, good point.”

“I... huh?”

“Chocolate sauce. You know, for our next, uh...  _meeting_. You’re Team Chocolate Sauce, right?”

“...”

“Oliver? Are you okay? You look a little–-”

“I’m good. Really good. So good. Are we-– How about we just grab the chocolate sauce and let the veggies fight it out amongst themselves.”

“But–-”

“Nope, gotta get home for that next  _meeting_. Which I’ve just scheduled for fifteen minutes from now.”

-30-


	49. Prompt Response: olicity, this is not how I wanted to spend this morning (lisp-fic)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: If youre feeling it- Oliver/Felicity: This was not how I wanted to spend the morning.
> 
> Also? I blame Stephen Amell's barbell-to-the-chin lisp-y Facebook videos.

 

“This was not how I wanted to spend the morning.”

“Gee,  _thankth_. I’m tho thorry for–-”

“Oliver,  _please_ stop trying to talk. And stop squirming. The ice will help the swelling. Here, put another cube in your mouth. How’s your tongue?”

“I’m fine, F’lithity.”

“Oh, you sound fine. Just peachy.”

“There’th no need to be tharcathhh-– stharcasthh-– Dammit.”

“Sarcastic?”

“Yeth.”

“Oliver. Babe. Every time you say a word with an ‘ _S’_  in it, you make me feel even worse.”

“How do you think I feelb? My tongue ith thwhollen.”

“Please. Oliver,  _please_ , you can’t tell anyone how this happened.”

“I’m not thure how I’m th’pothed to keep thith a thecret.”

“You’re taciturn by nature, Oliver! Just... you know, don’t talk tonight at the lair.”

“F’lithity.”

“Oh, my God. That will never work. You’re going to say...  _literally anything_  and Dig is going to quirk an eyebrow and then you’ll  _tell him_  and this is so terrible.”

“It’th fine. They’re not going to mock you.”

“I kind of broke your face, Oliver. Of course they’re going to mock me.”

“Not my fasthe– fa– Just my tongue. And I’ll jutht explain that I rocked your world and–-”

“Oliver, you are  _not_  telling anyone about this.”

“There’th nothing wrong with thex injurieth, F’lithity.”

“It’s not a sex injury!”

“F’lithity, you came tho hard that you–-”

“I was there, I remember, let’s not relive the part where I kneed you in the face mid-orgasm. Oh,  _God.”_

“Really. It’th fine.”

“Wait... Are you-– Are you  _proud_  of yourself for this?”

“F’lithity. My tongue fucking hurth –- the tongue I  _bit_  like a fucking child. At leatht give me thith.”

“Oliver–-”

“I’m taking my victory lap tonight, F’lithity. Tho good at oral thex my girlfriend kneed me in the facthe.”

“Oh, my God.”

-30-


	50. Prompt Response: olicity, "i know that sounded like an innuendo but it wasn't"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> darhkfelicity asked: olicity + "i know that sounded like an innuendo but it wasn't"

 

Felicity stops, blinking rapidly. “I know that sounded like an innuendo, but it wasn’t.”

Diggle, who was simply looking around the new Team Arrow space until her unfortunate (and unintended) double entrendre, looks vaguely nauseated as he watches her from the edge of the training area. “Please,  _please_  don’t continue with that thought.”

Her cheeks flush hotly. “Dig!” she yelps. “I meant –- we were working out. Oliver’s been teaching me self-defense, and he...” She shrugs and repeats what started this in the first place. “He worked me really hard last night.”

Diggle mutters something under his breath, bringing his hand to his face. When Felicity glances over at Oliver, he’s standing near the glass conference table with his arms crossed, and the biggest, smuggest smile on his face.

She flushes harder. But it’s not  _all_  embarrassment this time. Damn him. “Oliver, don’t,” she warns.

He gazes at her serenely. “I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re  _smirking_ ,” she counters, throwing a nervous glance Diggle’s way. “You’re gonna make him think I was talking about–-”

“Please,” Diggle interrupts. “Let’s just–-”

“I haven’t said a word,” Oliver protests. Smugly.

“You don’t have to when you make that face,” Felicity argues, glaring at the slight, knowing arch of his eyebrow. “That is not your  _I worked her so good on the mats_  face, Oliver. That is absolutely your  _I worked her sooooooo gooooooooood last night_  face.”

Oliver’s only answer is a shrug. A  _smug_  shrug. And how can shrugs be smug, anyway? And  _why does she find that so attractive_? Ugh, he does impossible things to her without even trying. And when he’s trying? Like right now? It’s totally unfair.

Diggle turns away from them, muttering, “I can’t believe I urged you two to get together. It’s like I brought this hell onto myself.”

Felicity glares at Oliver and gestures wildly at their distressed friend. “Oliver, _stop_  it.”

“I’m not doing anything,” he protests mildly. While that damnable eyebrow does _everything_  to her insides. “You made a statement about how hard I worked you last night–-”

“ _Oliver_ ,” she groans.

“–-and I simply nodded my agreement.”

“Smugly!” she points out, arms crossed.

He gives another careless shrug. “I’m not suggesting that you  _meant_ to refer to the three orgasms–-”

“I’m out!” Diggle says, moving rapidly to the door.

“-–I gave you last night, but your statement was true either way you want to interpret it.” His grin is impossibly wider and impossibly smugger now. “So I agreed.”

Felicity watches the door slam shut behind Diggle and turns to glare at Oliver. “Do you see what you did? You traumatized our friend!”

Oliver advances on her slowly, and she knows  _that_ particular face by now. “I artfully made sure we were alone down here,” he says. 

Felicity wants to tell him to apologize to Diggle. She wants to be mad. But truthfully? She really,  _really_ wants to fuck him on that conference table. 

“Impossible man,” she grumbles, reaching for him and yanking his face down to hers. “You’re apologizing to Dig later,” she murmurs, mid-kiss.

“Whatever,” Oliver agrees, sweeping her up and moving them to the table. He places her carefully on the edge, stepping closer and grinding his hips to hers. “Stop talking about Dig now.”

Felicity grins and lays back, grabbing handfuls of his shirt to pull him down after her. “Make me.”

-30-


	51. Prompt Response: Drunk, giggly Felicity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> firstjumperonfire:
> 
> okcupidescapades:
> 
> one time when i was a little drunk and laying in bed with a guy, i kissed his neck and mumbled “i could beat the shit out of you” in his ear.
> 
> he said “i know”
> 
> imagine your otp

 

“Sleep, Felicity,” Oliver murmured, tugging her just a little closer. She giggled in response, a soft, silly sound, her body shaking against him in the warm cocoon of their bed. They were lying on their sides facing each other, her head resting on his arm. He ran his hand down her spine, over the soft cotton of her sleep shirt. 

She’d been laughing for the last ten minutes, too drunk to fall asleep and too tired to do anything other than giggle against him. Not that he was complaining. She was adorable like this. “Felicity?”

Her giggles trailed off, and he could tell she was making an effort when she tipped her head back to meet his amused gaze. “Mmmkay,” she said, nodding in that overly serious way that the very drunk have. Oliver huffed a laugh and that set her off again. She pressed her face against his bare chest, her fingers clutching at his arm, and laughed and laughed.

Despite himself, Oliver chuckled along with her. “That last gin gimlet was clearly a mistake,” he observed, grinning down at the top of her blonde head.

“Nuh-uh,” she protested. Then she kissed his chest twice. Then started giggling again, helpless and joyful and so very cute.

“Felicity,” he said, exasperated. “You need to sleep.”

“No,” she managed, between the giggles.

“Yes, you really do.”

She turned the most unconvincing glare his way, only managing to keep the goofy, drunken smile from her lips for a matter of seconds. Then she hurled herself back against him, knocking him over onto his back and sliding up to rest her head on his chest. Still laughing.

Oliver shook his head, grinning at the ceiling. “You’re ridiculous.”

Felicity shifted against him, pressing a soft kiss to his neck. Her breath was hot against his ear when she said, “I could beat the shit out of you.” Oliver snorted a laugh, but before he could protest, she lifted her head to look at him, her brow furrowed in concentration. “You know, computerer–- computer-oril–- Computer- _orily_  speaking.”

His cheeks hurt from smiling so wide. “I don’t think that’s a word.”

“Could totally do it,” she shot back, finally,  _finally_  starting to sound a little drowsy. Her giggles trailed off, longer and longer silences between them until her breathing evened out and her body relaxed fully into his.

Oliver kissed her temple and let his eyes drift shut.

-30-


	52. Promo Pic Nonsense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Look at their dumb faces. UGH.](http://machawicket.tumblr.com/post/127578359747/photo-source-tvinsider-on-twitter-felicity)

 

“Felicity.”

“Yes, Oliver?”

“Is there something you want to tell me?”

“Hmmm, not particularly.”

“Felicity, I don’t remember the CEO portfolio including ordering office chairs. Specifically,  _a dozen_ , to be delivered to the loading dock on the east side of the building. The loading dock that’s not in use anymore.”

“I–- I’m a very hands-on person, Oliver, which I  _know_  you know.”

“Felicity.”

“I don’t suppose I could persuade you to let this go for, say, four to six weeks?”

“Felicity.”

“I promise it’s a good surprise.”

“Still not a fan of surprises.”

“Oh, come on, you  _loved_  that thing in Idaho with the vibrator and–-”

“Felicity!”

“I’m just saying, there are lots of  _good_  surprises, and this is one of them. So we should forget we had this conversation and–-”

“Are you designing a new Arrow cave?”

“That’s not at all what  _forgetting_  sounds like, Oliver.”

“Felicity.”

“Can we change the subject if I make it worth your while?”

“I just–-  Wait. Worth my while  _how_?”

“Well... when I was your EA, I most  _definitely_  didn’t have any sort of generic boss/secretary fantasy.”

“You-– You didn’t?”

“But I can see that you did.”

“No! I mean, yes? I mean, I had fantasies about  _you_ , not about... just... other things.”

“What’s the matter, Oliver? You sound a little flustered.”

“I’m-– I’m fine.”

“Hmm, okay. As I was saying, I  _definitely_ didn’t have any fantasies involving you and this desk right here. Not once.”

“You know I can tell when you’re lying.”

“So?”

“So thanks to this conversation, I now know you wanted me to bend you over that desk and fuck you senseless.  _Back then_.”

“...um...”

“What’s the matter, Felicity? You sound a little flustered.”

“I’m-– The past is not important right now, Oliver, because you’re not the CEO and I’m not your EA. And now that I’m sitting on the other  _side_  of this desk, with my handsome boyfriend mere  _inches_  away from me... Well, I’ve been thinking."

“Felicity.”

“How sturdy do you suppose this desk is, anyway? I definitely wouldn’t want to break it and have to explain. So maybe this is a bad idea...”

“But... but...  _bad idea_?”

“The desk.”

“Oh.”

“Oliver?”

“Yeah?”

“The desk is out, but those leather couches are probably pretty comfortable in certain...  _positions..._  and did I mention that I installed remote access controls so no one can get onto this floor when I touch...  _this_ button right here?”

“Huh.”

“Yeah. A very convenient upgrade.”

“So we-– we’re alone up here right now?”

“We are.”

“Felicity.”

“Yes, Oliver?”

“I like the way you think.”

“I like the way you–”

-30-


	53. Prompt Response: olicity, meeting in a hospital e.r. AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> simplyfragile asked: 15 + Olicity :)
> 
> Note: does anyone remember when I asked for AU prompts like a million years ago? Yeah, sorry! I am super slow. This one is meeting in a hospital e.r. AU.

 

“Ow,” Felicity says, hobbling to the middle row of waiting room chairs and collapsing dramatically into the one on the end. “Ow, ow,  _ow_!” She realizes she’s being a little loud, considering most people in the emergency room’s waiting area are probably  _also_  here for various painful reasons, but her ankle is messed up. 

And it hurts.

Walking in from the parking lot on it was a bad idea. Maybe she should’ve called an ambulance instead of making Iris drive her. But in all fairness,  _Iris owes her one_. Felicity glowers down at the cracked screen of her cellphone. Poor, sad, broken Peggy. 

Taking the seat beside her, Iris sighs. “Felicity, it’s probably fine, would you–-”

“Probably  _fine_?” Felicity echoes. “She’s totally cracked. Look!” Felicity angles her phone so the screen is clearly visible. “I’ve never butchered a piece of electronics before, but I let you touch her for  _two seconds_  and now poor Peggy is dead.”

Iris gives her a level look. “I  _meant_  your ankle.”

Oh. But-– “My ankle’s worse than poor Peggy here –- did you not see me tumble down an entire flight of stairs?”

“There were _three_  stairs,” Iris corrects, and Felicity can tell by the set of her mouth that Iris is trying very hard not to laugh at her. “And it was less tumbling and more,” she pauses, head tilting as she considers her words, “sliding down the stairs on your ass.”

Felicity opens her mouth to answer when she hears a low, probably male voice chuckling behind her. Since the noise level in the waiting room has been mostly just a general incoherent murmuring, the laughter is a little out of place. It catches her attention. Frowning, she cranes her head around to see who’s sitting behind her.  Because -– is someone  _laughing_ at her?

It’s difficult, though, because the middle row of seats are placed back to back, which means that all she can see of the man-shaped person behind her is the back of a close-cropped head of light brown hair. Oh, and he’s got some kind of scar low on the back of his head. 

Which is unimportant. The key takeaway is that she’s mostly convinced he was laughing at Iris’s comment, which was basically mocking Felicity. By the transitive property of  _mocking_ , some total stranger in the waiting room is laughing at her pain. She gives him a glare that he totally does not see, since he’s facing the complete other direction. With a huff, she turns back to Iris, eyes narrowed. “It  _hurt_ , Iris. My ankle is seriously messed up.”

“Okay,” Iris says, and Felicity  _knows_  she’s just being placated. 

Felicity has several data points in support of her  _seriously messed up ankle_  hypothesis. Most of them revolve around her pain level and also the freakish purple bruises already forming along the top of her foot and, you know, all the swelling, but before she can list them off, a nurse in baby blue scrubs appears holding a chart. “Oliver Queen?” she asks.

The waiting room goes silent as everyone waits to see if  _this_  Oliver Queen is actually the former drunken playboy and more recent, like,  _Gilligan’s Island_   _castaway_ Oliver Queen. Felicity and Iris turn wide eyes to each other, and then half-turn when the possibly-laughing-at-her guy behind them stands up and–

“ _Holy shit_ ,” Felicity whispers as, yeah,  _that_  Oliver Queen stands and follows the nurse back for treatment, cradling one arm to his chest with what looks like –-  _gross_  -– a blood-stained towel. “Did Oliver Queen just  _laugh at my pain_?”

& & &

Felicity is called back soon after, graciously accepting the wheelchair transport and letting Iris off the hook for staying with her. God knows how long this will take. And she’s totally an adult, and probably she’s not as scared of needles as she used to be. 

Maybe.

Though she’s banking pretty hard on  _not having to find out_.

The nurse –- Betty -– wheels Felicity past the large central nurses’ desk and towards the curtained off treatment areas along the far wall. Most of curtains are open, revealing empty beds, but Betty deposits Felicity in between two curtained-off sections. 

Once Betty helps her hop onto the bed. Felicity manages to rattle off name, age, and complaint without a problem. It’s when Betty asks her to explain what happened that Felicity goes a little off the rails.

“Fell down the stairs,” she says. And nods. Because she did. But it was so stupid, and she doesn’t want people to think that she just randomly  _falls down stairs_ , so she adds, “I asked Iris –- that’s my friend -– to hand me my phone, but she was farther away than I thought, so she  _threw it_. Can you believe that?”

Betty hums noncommittally, taking notes as Felicity continues.

“I’m not, you know, some sort of beach volleyball player or anything, so  _of course_ , I fumbled it. Wait –- that’s football, right? Fumbling? So I’m not a _football player_ , either. Obviously.” Felicity frowns, considering. “Not that there aren’t talented female football players, I just meant that I’m like 5′4″, and aren’t football players tall? Or is that just basketball players?”

Betty is just watching her now, eyes wide. 

Felicity waves off the diversion. “Doesn’t matter. I was focused on saving my phone, and I don’t know exactly what happened, but suddenly I was falling down the stairs.”

Betty makes a couple more notes on her chart and says, “A doctor will be in to see you soon. Just sit tight.”

Felicity fidgets and scans twitter on her phone, trying to ignore the pain in her ankle. Which is hard, because seriously,  _ouch_. “Geez, can’t a girl get some painkillers in the emergency room?” she mutters.

And then she hears what sounds an awful like that same low chuckle as before, when  _Oliver Queen_  laughed at her.

Whipping her head to the side, Felicity glares at the curtain which is, apparently, separating her from Oliver Queen, who thinks she’s funny. “It’s rude to laugh at people, you know,” she says. Loudly.

There’s a long, quiet moment, just the regular sounds of an emergency room, before a warm voice says, “I wasn’t laughing at you, I–-”

“If,” Felicity interrupts, louder still, “you are about to say,  _I was laughing with you_ , save it. In fact,  _stuff_  it.” She crosses her arms, still glaring at the curtain separating her treatment area from his.

Which is suddenly moving? Oh, crap.

Oliver Queen, in all his  _stupidly attractive_  glory, is sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning precipitously forward to reach the privacy curtain. Which he is easing back. Felicity would be pretty pissed at his presumption, but the pained grimace on his face makes her gasp.

“Oh, my God, are you okay?”

He looks up at her in confusion, then sits up straight, and that’s when Felicity’s gaze drops to the arm he’s  _not_  using. The one cradled against his chest. The one he’d been covering with a bloody towel in the waiting room. The one with –- “ _Is that a **screwdriver** through your–-_? _”_

Her vision goes spotty and her ears fill with like a weird static-y noise? And then–-

& & &

When Felicity jerks back to consciousness, wrinkling her nose at the really _awful_  scent attacking her, the first thing she sees when she opens her eyes is Oliver Queen’s concerned face peering down at her. Which is definitely not a thing she expected.

“What–-?”

“Are you okay?” he asks, leaning just a bit closer, and, yikes, his face should be weaponized with all its… its...  _niceness_. So symmetrical. And chisel-y.

When his concern melts into amusement, Felicity groans and closes her eyes. She totally said that out loud. Perfect.

“Miss Smoak?” asks Betty the nurse from Felicity’s other side.

Felicity glances over, blinking sluggishly at the nurse. “Are those  _smelling salts_.”

“Works every time,” Betty answers. “Now can you sit up and drink this orange juice for me?”

Only then does Felicity fully realize what happened. She jerks upright and stares at Oliver, who’s standing beside her bed like there isn’t a  _screwdriver impaling his hand_. “What are you doing standing up?”

He shifts his weight and shrugs. “Sorry about that. I–- it’s all covered now.” Grimacing, he lifts his  _totally impaled hand_ to show her that it’s now wrapped in bloody gauze. Except that she can still see the bright red plastic handle of the screwdriver. That is  _impaling_ him.

“Don’t do that!” she yelps, alarmed. “Just–- Sit back down and let them fix your gross hand!”

“Miss Smoak?” Betty prompts, bringing the little paper cup of orange juice into Felicity’s line of vision. 

“Not that your hand is gross,” Felicity adds. “I’m sure it’s a perfectly nice hand when there’s not a giant pointy thing sticking out of it, but-–” She looks away, closing her eyes and swallowing hard. “Just-– Not-–”

“Pointy?” he echoes, sounding honestly confused. “It’s a flathead screwdriver.”

“Ugh, why are you  _talking_  about it?” She brings her hands up to cover her ears. Like a child. Awesome. She is just impressing everyone around her today. “And sit down before you– Well,  _you_  clearly won’t faint since looking at a screwdriver piercing your hand -–  _ugh, so gross_  –- doesn’t even faze you, but you probably shouldn’t be, you know,  _jostling_  it around like that.”

“She’s right, Mr. Queen,” Betty added. “Please go back to your area.”

He ignores the nurse, keeping his gaze on Felicity. “Are you sure you’re okay? You passed out–-”

“Because of the severity of  _your_  injury,” she points out, starting to get a little irritated with his stubbornness. “ _Sit_.”

Oliver quirks an expressive eyebrow at that, but, surprisingly, obeys. “I wasn’t laughing at you,” he says, and if she’s being honest, he sounds a little stubborn about this.

“Are we still on this?” Felicity asks. “Because I am totally fine with forgetting that ever happened and just–-”

“Felicity,” Oliver interrupts, and that soft, amused smile and the sparkly blue eyes are doing things to her. Unfair things. (But also really nice things?)

She glares at him. “How do you know my name?”

His grin is really just unfair. “You said it to Betty, here, while I was sitting like four feet away.”

“Four feet plus a privacy curtain,” she shoots back.

“It’s fabric, Felicity, not soundproof glass.”

“Do you enjoy arguing?” she grouses.

Oliver gives her a careless shrug. “It passes the time. We’re both probably going to be here a while.”

Felicity’s eyes go a little wide at the realization. “Oh.”

& & &

In the end, they spend more time talking to each other than not, and their shared privacy curtain remains open most of the two-plus hours they spend in the treatment area. Each is wheeled away at some point for x-rays, and then returned.

Eventually, the the radiographer rules out a fracture, and Felicity is diagnosed with a grade 2 strain. Betty immobilizes Felicity’s ankle and presses an ice pack to it. “I’ll go get your discharge papers started.”

Felicity, who’s a little tired with the adrenaline crash, nods her thanks. They’d finally given her painkillers, but they hadn’t done much more than dull the throbbing ache in her ankle. She stares glumly down at the aircast.

“Lucky,” Oliver says. 

“I’d be luckier if my ankle wasn’t sprained and my poor phone wasn’t crushed to death,” she grumbles. Then she remembers that he’s  _still_  got a screwdriver in his hand, though it’s stabilized and packed and someone is  _supposed_ to come pull it out really soon. “But I mean, yeah.” She nods, feeling awkward and ungrateful.

Oliver opens his mouth to say something, but the doctor arrives -– a tiny Latina in purple scrubs with her long blonde hair in a messy topknot. “Hello, Mr. Queen, I’m here to remove that screwdriver. But first, can you tell me why you’re refusing painkillers?”

He shrugs. “Don’t need them.”

Felicity frowns and butts into the conversation. “What? Why are you refusing painkillers?”

The doctor glances over at her, but it’s Oliver who answers, “I don’t  _need_ them,” he repeats.

Felicity swings her uninjured leg over the side of the bed to face him more fully. “Are you insane?”

Oliver blinks at her. “No.”

“Why are you refusing  _pain meds_? Pain meds are  _good_ and–- and  _beneficial_ , and the doctor is about to  _un-impale_ you, which is just–- yeccchhhh–-  _so gross_ , but really necessary. Why are you making this harder on yourself?”

The doctor looks amused, but holds her ground, not interfering in the conversation. 

Oliver shakes his head, very slightly, and his expression is closed off when he answers, “I’ve learned I have a very high pain tolerance.”

Felicity thinks about his five years away and feels her face heat up. She doesn’t _know_  anything, of course, but there were enough rumors out there about _scars_  and  _damage_  for her to have heard some of them. And from the stony look on his face, he  _really_  doesn’t want to talk about this.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts. “I didn’t mean–-” She takes a moment, breathes out in a rush, then says, “Why not make a sucky situation a little easier on yourself, is all I meant.”

The doctor gives Felicity a quick grin and turns to Oliver. “Your friend here is a pretty smart lady.”

“Oh, I’m not his friend,” Felicity protests automatically. “We’re just-– I mean we just met. Here. Like this.” She waves a hand in the air between their beds. “We’re bed buddies.” 

Oliver turns an incredulous look her direction, and Felicity shuts her eyes and scrunches her face up. There’s just  _no_  saving that.  

“Okay,” the doctor says slowly. “How about we do what your  _buddy_  suggested and give you a little something before we remove the screwdriver?”

Felicity knows her face is bright red. She  _knows_ it. When she musters up the courage to glance at Oliver, he’s just... he’s  _smiling_  at her. It’s like someone aimed a freaking sunbeam on her face. And he just keeps grinning at her even as he nods. “Okay. I’ll take the pain meds.” 

“Good decision,” says the doctor, disappearing from the treatment area to get whatever she needs for the whole pain-meds-then-un-impaling process. Which Felicity does not want to think about too closely. Or at all really.

Which is good, because she can’t seem to tear her gaze away from Oliver Queen. Who is  _still_  smiling at her. That makes things like  _thoughts_  hard to organize. 

“Felicity?” he asks.

“Yeah?” she manages.

“I realize you’re not my friend,” he says, his tone warm and teasing. “But would you mind holding my hand while they work on me?” He quirks an eyebrow. “Make sure I don’t faint.”

“Oh,” she says, flushing more. Again. Still. She’s very,  _very_  glad she doesn’t have a heart monitor on, because her pulse is really loud and fast inside her head. “I– I mean, sure. Yes.” Felicity nods. “Hang on.”

And then she’s swinging her bad ankle off the bed, ignoring his protests about _wait_  and  _let me get you a chair_  and  _aren’t you supposed to be using crutches._ She hops the couple feet over to his bed and steadies herself against the bedframe. When she looks up at him, he’s really close now and really,  _really_ handsome, and she really should’ve thought this through.

“Wait,” he says, shifting a little. “Here.” And then his  _un-impaled_  arm is around her waist and lifting and  _holy crap_ , he’s effortlessly strong, because he just placed her on the mattress beside him. “Put your ankle up here,” he orders, patting the sheet beside his knee.

She swings her leg up with a grimace, then sits stiffly beside him, her eyes wide.

Slowly, Oliver unwinds his arm from her waist, then reaches between them to grasp her hand in his. When she tilts her face up to look at him, he smiles at her again. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she echoes, wondering what, exactly, is doing all that strange fluttering in her chest. Is it possible to have a really strange reaction to NSAIDs that make you feel like your rib cage is too small to contain all of this weird...  _excitement_  or... _something_  that feels kind of excitement-like. 

The doctor returns before Felicity can think of anything to say, and gives Felicity what feels like a little bit of a judgmental eyebrow quirk before administering the painkillers to Oliver. With a  _needle_. 

Felicity shudders and looks away, and somehow  _he’s_  the one giving her hand a gentle, comforting squeeze. All in all, it’s a good thing she’s sitting down when the doctor removes the screwdriver. She keeps her gaze carefully averted, her fingers tight around Oliver’s, but  _oh, God, the noises_. 

It’s a close call, but she doesn’t faint.

& & &

When Betty shows up with Felicity’s discharge papers, she eyes the two of them still sitting basically hip-to-hip on Oliver’s bed. “We try to avoid patients doubling up.”

Embarrassed, Felicity immediately slides off of Oliver’s bed and nearly lists too far sideways trying to balance only on her good foot. His not-formerly-impaled hand catches her hip to steady her. “Thanks,” she tells him, then turns to Betty. “Sorry, I was just–”

“It was my fault,” Oliver interrupted. “Can I get my discharge papers, too?”

Betty hands Felicity papers to sign on a clipboard. Felicity reads through them with maybe half of her attention, while keeping an eye on Betty as she studies Oliver’s chart. 

After a few moments, Betty agrees to start the process for Oliver, and accepts Felicity’s forms. “You’re all set, Ms. Smoak. You can just follow me right this–-”

“Or I could give you a lift home,” Oliver interrupts, turning that annoyingly bright smile back onto Felicity. 

Felicity doesn’t quite have an answer for that unexpected offer. “I... was just going to call my–- Iris.”

“Your Iris?” 

It really just isn’t fair, the amount of joy he seems to get out of teasing her. _Or_  the flustered, flattered way she keeps responding to it. She crosses her arms and tries very hard to keep the smile off of her face. “Yes,  _my_ Iris.”

He presses his lips together for a moment, then asks, “I thought your phone was dead –- how are you going to call her?”

Instinctively, she glances down at Peggy, still clutched in her hand. The distressed noise she makes is something between a whine and a whimper. “Crap.” How is she going to get home? Iris always tells her she’s over-reliant on her technology, and in this  _one_  specific case, Felicity is willing to agree that it is at least  _inconvenient_  that she doesn’t actually know anyone’s number. 

If she can just access her secure cloud drive, she’ll be fine. She wonders if Betty will give her three minutes on one of their administrative computers – they must have internet connections, right?

“C’mon,” Oliver says. “Let me drive you home. It’s the least I can do.”

“After your injury made me faint, or after I held your hand through the pain?” she teases.

He lifts one shoulder in a careless shrug. “Both. Either.”

Felicity gives his heavily bandaged hand a suspicious look. “How are you going to drive with  _that_?”

If she’s not mistaken, he actually looks –- is that...  _embarrassment_? “My–- my bodyguard, he...” Oliver makes a frustrated noise. “He drives me.”

And then Felicity is chuckling. “Of  _course_  you have a driver. Wow. Okay. Well, I guess if there’s two of you, you’re less likely to drive me out to a field to murder me.” Oliver looks quite startled by  _that_  gem, so Felicity waves it away. “I mean, what are the odds that you and your bodyguard are actually a violent criminal partnership?”

Oliver blinks. “I would... think the odds are pretty low.”

Felicity pauses, taking in the slight tension of his shoulders and the furrow between his eyebrows. “Well, that was... not entirely reassuring,” she decides. “As responses go.”

Oliver ducks his chin for a moment, and then look back up at her, his expression earnest and maybe… hopeful? “You can trust me,” he says.

There’s no reason for it. She’s read about Oliver Queen’s pre-castaway shenanigans, and she’s pretty sure he showed up to at least one or two  _post_ -island castaway events raging drunk. There’s no way  _that_  guy is trustworthy. But she also can’t seem to reconcile  _that_  guy with the man she’s met tonight. The man who hovered worriedly over her when she fainted, and laughed at her terrible jokes but not (it turns out)  _at_  her. The man who listened to her when she (probably somewhat rudely) told him he was being kind of a stubborn idiot about painkillers. 

The man who tugged her right up against his side and then held her hand while the doctors worked on him.

Felicity is surprised to realize that she  _does_  trust him. Instinctually.

At  _least_  enough to accept a ride home. So she nods and then holds out her hand expectantly. “Phone, please.”

It’s his turn to look confused. “Huh?” he asks. 

She’s going to use his phone to access her secure cloud drive and its apps, and then send Iris a text to update her on the situation. And Felicity obviously plans to add her phone number to his address book. She could explain all of this to Oliver, sure, but instead, she waggles her fingers and grins. “You can trust me.”

Oliver’s answering smile is slow and sweet, and Felicity has already thoroughly fallen for him by the time he places his phone in her grip and lets his fingertips skate along the edge of her palm. “I’m gonna need your phone number, Felicity.”

-30-


	54. S4 Trailer-Inspired: olicity, happy fluffy engaged bunnies by the finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Utter, fluffy nonsense, inspired by a conversation on how the Arrow seasons bookend, and if these idiots are happy fluffy bunnies in love in the premiere, they will be happy fluffy engaged bunnies in the finale. And despite thinking that Oliver will want to Do It Up Right with a proposal, I imagine it will be more a spur of the moment, mid-battle argument-type thing. ;

 

“Felicity, I told you to stay back!” Oliver growls when he catches a flash of blonde in his peripheral vision.

"When has that ever worked?” she answers, not even looking over at him as she scrambles closer to the computer terminal. “This will be faster.”

Even as he frets at her proximity to danger, Oliver shifts the fight, herding Dahrk’s minions farther away from his girlfriend. Ten feet away, Diggle is doing the same thing, and Oliver makes a mental note to thank him later. Oliver gets in a good kick and takes the split second’s pause in the fight to glance over at her. She’s got her back to the fight, fingers flying over the keyboard, the blueish haze highlighting her presence, and acting as a homing beacon for all the HIVE fighters in the room. “Felicity!” he protests. Because she was supposed to be doing this remotely.

She spares him a quick glance, her gaze taking in the state of the fight. “Would you  _focus_ on your-- Dig, on your left!" 

Oliver hears the solid  _thud_  that tells him Dig turned in time. Oliver re-engages with two HIVE minions even as he keeps arguing with her. "You need to get back in the van." 

"No,” Felicity answers, her voice just a little shaky with adrenaline and fear. Which has never stopped her before. God, he loves her. “I need to be here. Beside you." 

Oliver blocks a kick with his bow, whirling to land a vicious hit on the back of one guy’s head; the man crumples, but his companion gets in a hit on Oliver’s ribs. He gasps in a breath and says, "I very strongly agree with that general–-” He grunts, ducking another hit, grappling with the remaining fighter. “–-principle, but in order to make–-” Oliver elbows the guy, who lands on his ass and reaches for  _something_ in his pocket. “ _PUT DOWN YOUR WEAPON!_ ” Oliver orders. He kicks the gun away, then lands a knockout blow on the guy. 

Oliver checks on Diggle, who’s got his fighters similarly incapacitated. But there are more coming, Oliver knows it. HIVE has more minions –-  _worker bees_  –- than they’d expected, and this fight is going to take all he has. The last thing he needs is Felicity, right here in the middle of it, essentially unarmed and wholly focused on something other than her own safety. “Felicity, to make sure that’s true long term, you need to get  _back in the van_.” He didn’t really mean to shout, but his adrenaline is pumping and he  _can’t lose her_.

“No,” she says, not even pausing in -–  _whatever_  it is that she’s doing with the HIVE computers. “I’m close. Just give me thirty seconds.”

“Felicity!" 

"Oliver!” She’s irritated now, shooting a quick glare over her shoulder.

“Guys, I hate to jump in the middle of this,” Dig says, “but there’s more coming.”

Oliver’s patience snaps. “Felicity, would you  _please_  get back in the van so that I can  _handle_ these three assholes  _properly_ without worrying about  _watching your defenseless back_  and–-”

“Defenseless!?” she snaps, finally whirling in the chair to face him full on.

“I want you  _safe_  so that I can  _finish this_ ,” Oliver continues, getting louder and louder. “And then I will take you out to a nice, celebratory dinner like I wanted to _last night_ so I can ask you to  _marry me_ ,” Oliver half-realizes he’s let the cat out of the bag, but can’t make himself stop, because this next part is really important. “But first you have to  _GET BACK IN THE VAN_." 

Felicity stares at him, her mouth hanging open.  

Oliver glares back, breathing harshly. He can hear the HIVE minions coming now –- booted footsteps growing louder. He takes a slow, measured breath, moderates his voice. “Felicity,  _please_!" 

It seems to break through her momentary paralysis, because she lurches to her feet, eyes wide and focused on him. “I can’t believe...” She shakes her head.

“Guys,” Dig repeats, his voice tight with tension.

“One sec, Dig,” Felicity says, stepping right into Oliver’s personal space. “Two things, Oliver,” she says, her voice warm and loving and with only a slight hint of the irritation she’d been feeling moments before.

"Felicity!” he protests, because they’re about to be set upon by at least a half-dozen HIVE fighters, and he needs her  _safe_ , right now.

“I will get in the van because you–-” She stops, frowning a bit, and tilts her head. “Well, you didn’t ask  _nicely_  but–" 

“Felicity!" 

"But I understand your concern.” She takes another step, her toes nudging against his, her left hand reaching for his right. “Ask me now,” she says softly. Hopefully. 

Oliver blinks, dumbfounded. “What?”

“Ask me now,” she repeats, a slow smile on her face that is wholly out of place in this momentary pause in the fight. 

"Felicity,” he protests, exasperated. “I’m in the middle of–-" 

“ _Ask me,_ ” she demands, squeezing his hand.

He shakes his head, at a loss. “This isn’t really how–-”

Dig interrupts with a frustrated, impatient noise. “We’ve got like thirty seconds. Just ask her, man.” 

“Felicity.” Oliver inhales, suddenly, inexplicably nervous. "Will-- will you marry me?" 

Her smile is like the sun. "Yes,” she says, and nods, her ponytail dancing. He has the strongest sense memory of that alley outside Verdant, of asking her out on a date. And now they’re here.

He grins back at her. “Good.” He presses a fast, hard kiss to her lips and straightens up, trying to focus on the fight that’s coming instead of his girlfr-– his  _fiancee_  beaming at him. “I will marry the hell out of you tomorrow. Now,  _get back in the van_.”  

“Okay,” she says, backing away but holding onto his hand for as long as she can. “But if you think I’ll take orders any better as your wife, you’re going to be really sadly mistaken.”

Oliver laughs. Right there in a HIVE stronghold, odds most decidedly not in their favor, and a new squad of fighters bearing down on them. He laughs because she is strong and smart and stubborn, and she is his. “Go,” he says.

Felicity winks –- that ridiculous scrunching of half of her face that she  _insists_  is a wink, and that he insists is the cutest thing in the entire universe –- and turns, slipping back out into the parking area, heading for the van. 

Dig snorts. “You two are ridiculous,” he says. “Five seconds.”

Oliver is still grinning as HIVE minions spill into the room. “I know.”

-30-   


	55. Souffle-Related Fluff: olicity, thea POV, HE BAKED LITTLE SOUFFLES

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Go look at [his sad puppy face in this gifset](http://machawicket.tumblr.com/post/128755590827/sorry-for-writing-fic-on-this-but-its-fanmommer). Sorry for writing fic on this, but it’s fanmommer, youguysimserious, and dettiot‘s fault? S4 SPOILERS (from the second S4 trailer).
> 
> ETA: Ahahahaha, the third S4 trailer, you guys, I AM DEAD.

 

Thea doesn’t know what she expected to find at Oliver and Felicity’s weirdly suburban love cave outside of Coast City. Matching SUVs with vanity plates maybe? Her brother flipping burgers while wearing socks and sandals? A his and hers archery set?

She can’t  _really_  imagine any of that, but never in her wildest dreams did she expect  _this_.

Because Felicity has no sooner ushered them inside with wide eyes than Thea’s brother appeared in the doorway holding dessert on a little serving tray. Oliver Queen, the Starling City vigilante and total badass, is holding homemade personal-sized souffles. That he baked. For his girlfriend.

And is that homemade whipped cream, too?

“TMZ would murder a litter of puppies for this picture,” Thea mutters.

Beside her, Laurel make a small choking noise, but Thea can’t tear her gaze from her brother’s vaguely panicked face. His reaction is setting off warning bells. Not  _DANGER –-_ more like  _my brother is seriously wigging out for no apparent reason_  warning bells.

“Oliver, look –- Thea and Laurel are here,” Felicity says, somewhat unnecessarily, as she moves to his side. She beams at the desserts on the serving tray. That Oliver is  _still_  just holding, like he has no idea what to do next. Felicity pats his bicep and glances back at Thea and Laurel. “I’ll just -– I’ll get a couple more plates,” she announces brightly.

 _That’s_  what finally gets a reaction from Oliver -– not his sister and ex-girlfriend showing up uninvited, not the idea that they’re probably here on  _vigilante_ business, but the thought of having to  _share the dessert he baked_. 

“What?” he says, head snapping around to look at his girlfriend. “No!”

Felicity frowns at him. “Oliver, they drove all the way here to see us. The least we can do is offer them  _refreshments_.” And then Felicity half-turns back to face them. “Which –- also –- would you like wine? Or... well, we have his super-gross protein shake...  _stuff,_ but other than that, we’re more of a wine or coffee household.” She purses her lips briefly, then shrugs. “Or water. There’s always water?”

“Felicity,” Oliver says, and Thea can tell there’s about fifteen messages just in the way he says her name. “We can’t–-”

“Offer them a seat,” Felicity interrupts, giving him a completely ineffectual little shove in their direction. “I’ll–-” She waves towards what Thea assumes must be the kitchen-– “do that.” She turns away, muttering, “I’m a  _terrible_  hostess.”

“We’re fine,” Laurel calls after Felicity. “Really, we don’t need–-”

“It’s no trouble!” Felicity hollers back.

Thea just keeps her attention on Oliver, who is  _definitely_  panicking. And while he  _should_  be worried about what’s brought them to his doorstep, he seems much more concerned about the desserts.

“Ollie,” Thea starts, “what’s wrong with your face?”

“Nothing’s wrong with my face, Speedy,” he snaps back. “I just–- We weren’t expecting you.”

Thea crosses her arms and gives him a very judge-y look. “So nice to know my own brother missed me so much. I feel so welcome in his home, what with the way he greeted me with open arms.  _Oh, wait_.”

Oliver moves closer, setting the serving tray down very carefully on the coffee table before turning to grab her into a hug. “Thea,” he says, and  _now_  he sounds like her adoring big brother. “I have really missed you.” He squeezes her a little tighter and Thea hides her grin against his shirt.

“Awww,” Felicity says from somewhere behind Oliver.

He steps back, turning to give Laurel a hug. “And you,” he tells Laurel, who nods and embraces him quickly. 

“We are sorry to just barge in here like this,” Laurel says.

Thea shrugs. “I’m not  _that_  sorry. I didn’t believe you were living in the ‘burbs.”

Felicity puts four spoons on the serving tray beside the souffle ramekins, and insists that everyone sit. She and Oliver gravitate to the couch, sitting basically hip to hip. Thea takes the chair near Oliver, and Laurel circles the table a little warily, taking the other chair. 

Felicity taps the spoons, which rattle together. “Grab one. Oliver’s a really good cook,” she says. “You have to try this!”

Laurel has that wide-eyed, disbelieving look on her face again. “This is very surreal,” she murmurs.

Thea nods. “Yes, but I think...  _good_  surreal.” She gives Felicity a grin. “I can’t make a final call until after I try this -– souffle, right, Ollie?”

“Yes,” he says, sounding a little strange again. “Uh, I think – Speedy, we can share this one.” He grabs one of the ramekins and gives Thea a pointed look that she...  _really_  doesn’t understand. 

Also – in what world does it make sense that her brother wants to share the romantic dessert he made for his girlfriend with his  _sister_ , while said girlfriend splits the other one with his  _ex_ -girlfriend?

Thea glances at the puzzled-to-vaguely-horrified looks on Felicity’s and Laurel’s faces and knows she’s not the only one wondering what is wrong with Oliver. Felicity picks up a spoon with a tiny shrug, muttering, “That’s not weird at all.”

When Thea glances back at Oliver, he’s clutching his spoon so hard his knuckles look a little white, and he gives her another pleading look. He clears his throat. “It’s just -– Thea and I used to share desserts.”

Now she  _knows_  her brother has lost his mind. “No, we didn’t,” she argues automatically.

“Yes, we did,” he insists. “Remember, I used to give you half of my pie slice sometimes?”

“Yeah,” Thea scoffs, “only when you were  _bribing_  me not to tell Mom you snuck out  _again_. Or puked in the bushes  _again_.”

Felicity, who’d been bringing a bite of souffle to her mouth, places it back down and grimaces.

“Speedy,” Ollie says in a measured tone, “would you please just  _help me out_  here and share this souffle before it falls?” He stares at her until she nods, then glances at Laurel and Felicity. “Eat,” he urges them.

Laurel and Felicity exchange smiles and shrugs, and then dig in. “Mmmm,” Felicity moans around a mouthful. “I think you really nailed it this time, Oliver.”

Thea presses her lips together to keep from laughing. Instead, she grabs a spoon and digs into the souffle. She takes a bite, and it’s actually really good. She taps Oliver’s spoon with hers. “Yum!” Then she smirks at him.  “I can’t believe you bake  _souffles_  now, tough guy.”

“I think it’s sweet,” Laurel says, and when Thea looks over, her friend has a small but genuine smile on her face. “Never thought I’d live to see the day,” she teases, “but it’s sweet.”

Felicity just grins at Laurel, then Oliver, who’s looking rather bashful.

Thea leans forward, her knee bumping into her brother’s, and digs the spoon in for another bite, frowning when she hears the distinct clink of metal on metal. Beside her, Oliver freezes. Thea gives him a bewildered look, but he simply turns the ramekin a bit and nudges her spoon away, leaving his in the souffle like a shield to protect–- 

“Oh, my  _God!”_ Thea says, staring at her brother.

Her brother who baked an  _engagement ring_  into a souffle. Her brother who was trying to  _propose to his girlfriend_  when his sister and ex-girlfriend barged in. 

“Ollie,” she says, sounding stunned even to her own ears. She can feel Laurel and Felicity watching her in confusion.

Oliver nods a little desperately, confirming her suspicions. And now, finally, his panic and wordless pleas make so much more sense. “Didn’t think I could bake, huh?” he says. “It really is good, I know.”

Thea clamps her mouth shut and nods. “Yes.  _Really_  good. I–- I was just surprised.”

Oliver stays utterly still until Felicity and Laurel start chatting about their favorite desserts, then he mouths  _thank you_  to Thea. The siblings sit quietly -– Thea’s too stunned to eat, and she’s pretty sure her brother is still kind of panicking -– until Laurel and Felicity finish their souffle.

Thea jumps to her feet. “Ollie, I’ll help you clean up.” She grabs the empty ramekin and their spoons, and marches towards the presumptive kitchen. Behind her, she hears Oliver suggest that Felicity give Laurel a tour. And then he arrives in the kitchen, that ramekin clutched in his hand.

Thea whacks his arm. “You’re proposing to Felicity?”

Oliver gives her a sour look. “I guess not  _tonight_ , Speedy.”

She rolls her eyes. “Sorry to have ruined the proposal attempt that would’ve been ruined when your girlfriend  _broke a tooth_  biting into a diamond.”

Oliver pales a little. “I didn’t...”

“Clearly!”

“Hey,” he snaps, “I put a lot of thought and effort into this. Do you know how hard it is to bake a souffle at all, never mind with a hunk of metal in it to screw up the temperature consistency?”

Thea closes her eyes for a moment. “Did you at least... put it  _in_  something before you baked it into a dessert?”

Oliver blinks. “No. What do you mean?”

“So you were going to chip her tooth and then propose with a ring covered in crumbs. Who  _bakes_  engagement rings, anyway, Ollie?”

It’s his turn to give her a withering look. “It’s not like platinum or _diamonds_  would melt in an oven, Speedy.”

Thea tilts her head. “Can I see the ring?”

“What? No!” 

“But you went diamonds only?” she prods. Because apparently her commitment-phobe brother is so into commitment now that he went ring shopping all on his own and then planned an elaborate proposal. She kind of needs to see the ring before she’ll believe this isn’t some weird fever dream.

“Only?” he echoes, and he’s starting to look panicky again. “What do you–-”

“I just thought,” she interrupts, “since you’re not one for subtlety, I thought maybe a big square cut emerald.” He looks at her blankly. “You know, a  _green_ stone?” she prompts.

Oliver stares at her. “You think I should get her an emerald instead?”

She grins at him. “Can’t say for sure without seeing the diamond ring.”

Finally,  _finally_ , he looks down at the ramekin cradled against his chest. Then he ever-so-delicately picks through the souffle remnants and pulls out a small ring that’s probably shiny when it’s clean. Thea leans closer, blowing on it to try to get more crumbs off – it’s an emerald-cut diamond, ironically, in a relatively simple setting. 

The most unexpected wave of happiness hits Thea, and she steps forward, throwing her arms around her brother. “You did good, Ollie.”

His arms come around her. “Yeah?” he asks.

“She’ll  _love_  it,” Thea assures him, sniffling a little at the thought of having a new sister. At the thought of how  _happy_  her brother is.

She hears Laurel and Felicity talking as they grow nearer, so Thea steps back and runs her fingers under her eyes to clear away any trace of the happy tears she may or may not have shed. “The ring’s gorgeous,” she says, grinning up at her brother, “but if you think we’re done talking about the proposal part, you are very sadly mistaken.”

“Speedy,” he warns.

“You took that girl to the Italian coast, and then she took you to Bali, and you were going to propose  _in your living room_?” Thea shakes her head at him. “Ollie.”

He lowers his voice, practically hissing at her, “I had a lot of nice things to say about making a home  _together_ and -– I’m not gonna justify myself to you!” He shoves the crumb-y ring in his pocket as Felicity leads Laurel into the room. “ _Speedy_.”

Thea ignores him, stepping forward to link arms with her future sister-in-law. “So tell me, Felicity, what’s the best place you’ve been since you and my brother left Starling? Your favorite spot?”

Felicity smiles this sweet, secret smile and glances over her shoulder at Oliver. “Right here,” she answers. “This is my favorite place.”

“You guys really  _are_  perfect for each other,” Thea says, glancing back at her brother’s smug face.

He crosses his arms and smirks at her. “What was that, Speedy?”

She should be irritated, but instead, she beams at her brother. “I missed you.”

His smirk softens into a genuine smile. “Missed you too, Speedy. I can always use your help.”

The warm silence lingers as they all drift back to the living room, Oliver and Felicity settling back onto the couch, while Laurel and Thea exchange a glance and remain standing. 

“Funny you should mention help,” Thea says. “Because we  _really_  need your help.”

-30-


	56. Prompt Response: post-Tarzan/landmine rope swing Oliver catches a little bit of a clue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: HI MACHA I couldn't help but notice [you reblogged the "you're really sweaty" Olicity moment featuring realization that Oliver is biting his lip](http://machawicket.tumblr.com/post/129078188352/scu11y22-oliverfelicitygifs-if-you-look), and, since you are the queen of UST, do you think you might write a drabble on this? Which, is short and random, but your writing and characterization of Olicity is so good I want as much fic from you as possible lol
> 
> First, THANK you, Anon! I don’t think I’m the queen of anything, but I thank you kindly for the compliment! :)
> 
> Second… I’m really sorry this is kind of terrible? Somehow, I fell into a very deep writing ditch, and I ain’t got a shovel. So. Yeah.

 

It’s a problem, Felicity being here.

Diggle, too, Oliver thinks as he leads them toward the husk of the plane he’s using for shelter.  _Neither_  of them should’ve come to Lian Yu. 

But Oliver is much,  _much_  more focused on Felicity’s presence at the moment.

The island is not  _that_  inhospitable these days, actually, so he’s not concerned about basic safety –- food, shelter, medical supplies he has covered. There are no secret military operations this time around, no factions, no torture, no  _other people at all_.

Which is, ironically, part of the problem.

Because it’s been months since Oliver’s seen a woman. Months since he’s touched a woman. And now she’s here and vibrant and so  _Felicity_  that it makes his chest ache in the strangest way. The first human contact Oliver’s had in _months_  was Felicity sprawled beneath him, her small hand on his back, moving in little circles, her knee leaning against his hip, her pink mouth  _so unbearably close_.

It was too much, and he was hard before he knew what was happening, his only saving grace the fact that his erection was pressed into the dirt, and not her soft thigh.

God, her thighs are something else.

Oliver growls and speeds up, trying his damnedest to  _stop thinking about her like that_. She’s Felicity. She’s his friend, his partner. He has no right to think of her  _like that_.

Which... hasn’t actually stopped him in the months since he’s seen her, if he’s being honest. Oliver spent some time on his own while he was...  _away..._  but he overestimated his ability to be alone, to be celibate, when he decided to run to Lian Yu. Five months with only his hand to keep him company –- maybe he shouldn’t be surprised his mind supplied images of many women he knows, including Felicity, when he jerked off.

That his fantasies have started to feature her more heavily is something he just doesn’t want to think about. It doesn’t mean anything. He’s a man with a high sex drive, and she’s a beautiful woman. Thinking about  _other_  opportunities to hear her loud voice, remembering with stunning clarity that little gold dress with that  _slit_ , imagining what those pink lips would look like wrapped around him –- just guy stuff. It doesn’t mean anything. 

He almost made himself believe it. Until she showed up here.

“Oliver, can we–-” Her voice is winded, and he realizes he’s had them moving entirely too quickly. The plane is more than a mile from the beach, a good portion of which is an incline, and he’d been so lost in his own thoughts -– about her, because apparently he’s a glutton for punishment -– that he hadn’t realized she was struggling a little.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, turning back to Diggle and Felicity. Dig’s got sweat along his brow, and Felicity is breathing heavily, but grinning, even as she half-turns and puts her hands on her knees. She’s bent at the waist, her perfect ass showcased by her tight black jeans, and there’s really nothing Oliver can do to stop the inevitable.

His gaze drops unerringly to her ass, and it’s all he can do to hold back a groan. 

Dig cuffs him -–  _hard_  –- in the arm, and is glaring when Oliver turns to him. The unspoken message –-  _get it together, man_  –- is obvious, and Oliver thinks he might actually be blushing.

“Okay,” Felicity says, pushing herself back upright. “Sorry, I skipped cardio for the past, you know,  _ever_.” Her grin is bright as she gestures between the two of them. “Not that either of  _you’d_  know mere mortals can’t hike at warp speed.” She frowns, her gaze sliding back to the trail behind them. “Well, I mean, I guess I could hike fast  _downhill_ , though that could end badly.  _Really_  wouldn’t want to sprain an ankle here on hell island.” 

She whips her head back around, her ponytail bouncing and a grin on those kissable pink lips, and Oliver is so fucked. Because he’s not just thinking about having sex with her, and he’s not just rotating her through his fantasies while she’s far, far away. She’s standing two feet from him and he’s thinking about _kissing_  her. 

Felicity beams at him. “Though if I sprained an ankle, one of you would have to  _carry_  me, so that wouldn’t totally suck.”

Oliver can’t come up with a single thing to say. Because it’s occurring to him that he  _is_  attracted to Felicity. A lot. He’s  _very_  attracted to her, and not just her perfect ass and her tight body –- and when  _exactly_  had he noticed all of this? –- but her... Just  _her_. 

It’s a revelation -– he wants  _Felicity_.

Fuck.

Beside him, Dig snorts. “You okay, Oliver?”

_Not even close._

But he jerks a nod and turns away, because he needs some time to figure out how to handle this. How to put this attraction into a box and lock it away. “Let’s keep moving.” 

He’s so fucked.

-30-


	57. Prompt Response: Ex's and Oh's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Oh my goodness, I just had to tell you that the Ex Oh's post you wrote 2 or 3 days ago is literally one of my Olicity headcanons as well! Just imagine them on their roadtrip, coming across one of Felicity's past flings and Oliver being delicously miffed and lil bit territorial oh my god!! If I had a talent with words like so many of you have, I'd write the heck out of that!
> 
> This didn’t go exactly like this lovely Anon’s prompt suggested, but… ;)

 

She doesn’t really pull it all together until they get to Central City and –- with the help of Team Flash (though they don’t really call themselves that) -– they’re able to  _unshrink_  Ray. Poor Ray, who was stuck all tiny for months –-  _months_  –- yet is still so perfectly, exuberantly  _himself_  when he grins at everyone in the room and says, “Geez, you guys look a lot better normal-sized.” Then he quirks an amused-at-himself eyebrow and adds, “Not that you  _weren’t_  normal-sized this whole time, but you looked pretty terrifying from down there.”

There’s a flurry of medical-related activity then, with Caitlin and a wide-eyed Cisco taking the lead on what kind of tests they want to run. But it only takes a few minutes for Ray to beckon Felicity over for a hug. She squeezes him tight and then beams up at him. “Welcome back to human-size life!” Then she frowns. “What did you  _eat_?”

Ray chuckles. “That was definitely not my favorite part of–” He waves hand towards the wall– “all of  _that_. Let’s just say that mice are  _not_ keen on sharing the more edible table scraps.”

Well. That’s... an image. Felicity wrinkles her nose. “Yuck.”

“Yeah. Anyway!” Ray glances pointedly at her feet. “Those heels of yours are even  _more_  impressive now that I’ve seen them from below.”

Then Ray turns to Oliver (who is standing surprisingly close to her all of a sudden) and offers an enthusiastic handshake. “I’m glad you two were able to figure things out,” Ray says, and Felicity knows him well enough to know he means it sincerely. “You’re a  _really_  lucky man.”

“Thank you,” Oliver says, even as Barry appears beside them with a knowing look on his face.

“Are we talking about Oliver and Felicity?” Barry asks.

“No,” Oliver says, as Ray nods enthusiastically and says, “Yes! I was just telling him he’s a very lucky man!”

Barry lifts his eyebrows and joins Ray in the emphatic nodding. “He really is!” 

Flushed with embarrassment -– because it’s strange to have her ex and her almost-something cheerfully telling her boyfriend that he’s lucky to have her -– Felicity glances at said boyfriend. Who is standing there, arms crossed over his chest, not looking like he agrees with their assertions even a little bit. 

Which, yeah, stings a little bit. 

Felicity frowns at him, but Oliver’s attention flits between Ray and Barry. After a moment, he simply “ _Mmhmms_ ” his agreement. 

And that’s when Oliver’s face does that  _thing_.

It’s a weird, uncommon thing that Felicity has seen maybe a couple times before. His smile freezes, a bit like his fake jerky playboy smile but not quite. His jaw clenches with what seems like anger, but his eyes don’t have that icy Arrow-y glare, so she knows it’s not that. And then his gaze slides from Ray over to her, and she recognizes regret.

“Oliver?” Felicity asks, but he shakes his head the slightest bit, in what she now recognizes is his  _not here_  gesture (or maybe his  _not now_  gesture), so she drops it. There’s a ton going on, what with Ray and the whole shrunken-for-months thing. 

Felicity doesn’t bring it up again until they get back to their hotel room. She follows him in and wanders over to the bed, kicking off her heels (he hates that she leave them lying around, but too bad) and dropping down to sit. Oliver is standing over by his suitcase, not  _ignoring_  her so much as lost in his own head. “Soooo,” she drawls, watching him tug his shirt off with a bit of frustration in his movements. “Do you want to tell me about that face?”

He pauses, glancing over at her with his adorable (honestly, it would be so much easier on her if  _every single thing he ever did_  wasn’t attractive in some way) confused expression. “What face?” 

She tilts her head, watching him closely. “That weird fake–-” she waves her hand helplessly in front of her own face because she can’t figure out how to describe it–- " _face_ you made earlier with Ray and Barry.” His expression freezes and he turns away, but she is up off the bed and crossing to him. “ _That_  face!” she says, pointing at him. “The face you’re making right now. What is that about?”

“I’m not making a face,” he protests, unzipping his jeans like that will distract her.

It does, actually, but just for a second. Because she can ogle her hot boyfriend as he strips for her  _and_  kind of yell at him at the same time. “Oliver! Why did you react that way? Ray was being very gracious about the fact that I dated him –-  _that’s the face, that one right there_!” Exasperated, she throws her hands in the air. “Are you seriously  _jealous_  of Ray? Is that your jealousy face? Because Dig says you were super-jealous of Barry way back when we met and  _that’s_  why you were such an ass then, but I remember  _that_  face and it was different from–-” This time she waves helplessly at  _his_  face-– “whatever  _this_  is.”

“I wasn’t jealous of Barry,” he argues. When she arches a skeptical eyebrow at him, he concedes, “I didn’t  _know_  I was jealous of Barry. I wasn’t very in touch with my emotions back then.”

Felicity swallows several unkind comments and refocuses on the issue at hand. “Okay, so is this your new improved jealousy face?”

“No,” he argues, but his tone is sharp and his body language is all tense and Oliver-y, and he turns away from her -– which she appreciates, considering the boxer-briefs are pretty snug -- before just...  _stopping_. He takes a big breath and releases it, and the rigid tension in his body starts to fade. “I’m sorry,” he says, turning back to her.

Felicity steps closer, because -– well, half-naked Oliver, but also he’s about to tell her about the weird face, and she can tell he’s worried about her reaction. She may get frustrated with him (in her defense, she almost  _always_  does that when he’s being particularly stubborn or infuriating), but she loves him and wants him to know he can tell her everything. She wants to encourage him to talk about his feelings now that he can actually identify most of them, so she reaches for him, one hand pressing flat against his chest, the other trailing down his arm to tangle their fingers together. “Tell me,” she says softly.

“I’m not-–” He ducks his chin, huffing a laugh. “That’s a lie, I  _am_  jealous. But,” he continues quickly, forestalling her protests, “I know I have no right to be. It’s…”

She steps closer, tilting her face up to his. “You have no  _reason_ to be jealous, Oliver, and you know that. So I’m not sure I understand?”

“It’s stupid,” he tells hear, his grip on her hand tightening. “And I don’t think I can explain without making you mad.”

Narrowing her eyes, she considers his words and her temper starts to flare. “Is this some misogynistic bullshit about purity and–”

“No!” Oliver leans in, kissing her and wrapping his free arm around her back to hug her close. “I swear,” he murmurs against her lips. “It’s not. It wouldn’t be anyway because I try very hard not to be that guy, Plus,” he adds ruefully, “me of  _all_  people-–”

“I was gonna say,” she interrupts, giving him an exaggerated judge-y face. “But you’re  _not_ jealous that I slept with Ray?” Then she frowns. “Do you think I slept with Barry? Because I did not. I mean, I kissed him. And he sort of accidentally got to second base, but that was just smart thinking. And fire. Wait –- second base is boobs, right?” she wonders, missing the exasperation and affection on Oliver’s face as he watches her wind herself up on the topic. “Because I think  _kissing_  is first base, which is really strange because kissing should be, like, the batter making contact and kicking everything off. Actually,” she decides, “baseball metaphors for sex are really stupid.”

When she looks back up at Oliver, he is beaming down at her. “I’m not  _not_  jealous of anyone who’s touched you all the ways I want to touch you, but that’s not what I was thinking about earlier.”

“Okay.” Felicity scratches her fingertips lightly against his chest and he groans, squeezing her other hand. “What were you thinking about earlier?” she asks.

“That you’re amazing,” he answers immediately.

She glares up at him. “Me being amazing makes your face get all angry and scrunchy and weird? Great.”

“No, just–-” He looks past her for a moment, then recaptures her gaze. “Just–- sometimes I think about how badly I handled things with– with you and with us when I was struggling, and when it came down to it, this?” His arm tightens around her, his palm warm and firm against her back. “This is the easiest thing I’ve ever done. And I just get frustrated with myself for pushing you away for so long.”

“Oh.” It’s really sweet and she presses her lips together before more dumb stuff about sex metaphors can tumble out of her mouth.

“And also,” he says, his tone dropping to a register that her body knows and loves and immediately responds to, “I know how great this is with you.” He lets his big hand drift lower and lower on her back, down to the curve of her ass, making clear just what  _this_  he’s talking about. “How great you are. And I just think they don’t need to remind me that  _they_  know.”

Her body, which had already started to sway and curve and soften against his, stiffens. “Wait,  _what_?”

Oliver glowers a little. “Palmer,” he says, gruff and a little irritated again, “and his  _you’re a really lucky guy._ It’s just...” He makes a frustrated noise.

Felicity steps back, using the hand on his chest to push him away from her. “You think Ray was  _congratulating you on all the great sex you’re having with me_?” she squeaks. Because –- seriously,  _what_?

Too late, Oliver seems to have realized his mistake. His eyes go wide and he reaches for her. “Wait, no. I just meant–”

“You said I was great in bed and you don’t appreciate Ray reminding you that he’s  _sampled my wares_ ,” she summarizes, arms folded. “Because apparently I sexed him so good that–”

“Felicity,” Oliver interrupts, “ _no_. I told you, I’m a  _little_  jealous, because that’s human nature, but most of this is me being mad at myself for wasting time we could’ve been together. That’s  _it_.” He gives her his big, sad eyes, all pleading and desperate, and it’s  _not fair_  how helpless she is against it.

Plus, she doesn’t  _hate_  that he’s a little jealous. She’s human – she’s been known to get a little jealous of his  _vast_ array of ex-girlfriends. Maybe it’s regressive of her, but it feels good that he’s so into her.

“I told you I couldn’t explain it without you getting mad at me,” he says, just standing there with his sad eyes and his ridiculous body and his boxer briefs that are not hiding his interest in something other than her conversational skills. 

She steps forward again, presses herself against him, slides her arms around his broad chest and looks up at him. “Sometimes,” she tells him, “you’re an idiot. But thank you for trying to explain.”

His big arms come up around her and he squeezes her close. “You forgive me?”

Felicity presses up on her toes and kisses him, a little dirty, a little suggestive. “Make it worth my while,” she suggests with a grin.

Before she can blink, Oliver lifts her up, turns them, and tosses her onto the bed. “Happy to,” he answers. She’s laughing as she bounces on the mattress, and then he’s on her, his big body looming over hers. He leans in and kisses her softly. “I love you,” he says, a smirk on that handsome face of his as he slips one hand under her skirt. “And I love how fucking good you are at this.”

Felicity laughs and says, “Likewise.”

-30-


	58. Prompt Response: olicity, “My sexual preference is often.” and “What a nice little sound, I think I’ll bite there again.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lesliesbknope asked: “My sexual preference is often.” and “What a nice little sound, I think I’ll bite there again.” is this cheating?
> 
> Heeee, nope. Behold, Drunk!Felicity oversharing with Dig and Oliver, during the heady, UST-filled days of arrow 2.5. ;)

 

Diggle heard her coming.

Which wasn’t really that unusual, considering she favored heels and the lair’s metal stairs and concrete floor made them more than a little audible. But tonight, he heard Felicity’s giggles before her heels.

Eyebrows raised, Dig put down the med supplies he was sorting and shifted so he could see her –- oh, shit -–  _stumbling_  down the stairs.

“Careful!” Oliver warned, half-turning and reaching for her. When Felicity just grinned at him, Oliver sighed and shifted, sweeping her into his arms and carefully walking down the staircase.

Diggle bit back a smile. These two idiots. Felicity was tipsy enough to wrap her arms around his neck and press her face against his throat. The look on that idiot’s face in reaction nearly set Dig off laughing. It was really too bad Roy was missing Oliver mooning after the woman cradled in his arms. The woman who was already his, and would happily prove it if only Oliver could get his head out of his ass.

When Oliver noticed Dig watching them, he nearly faltered. “Hey,” he greeted, shifting Felicity slightly.

Felicity, who apparently wasn’t paying attention to anything other than the man holding her, nuzzled her face against Oliver and murmured, “Hey.”

Then Oliver stopped short and choked out a strangled noise.

Dig tensed and asked, “You okay?”

But Felicity was giggling again. And then she said, “What a nice little sound, I think I’ll bite there again.”

Oliver turned wide, scared eyes Dig’s way. “Dig?”

Dig just smirked at his friend. “Got a problem, Oliver?”

Belatedly, Dig’s name -– and presence –- seemed to get through Felicity’s drunken fog. She stopped inadvertently torturing Oliver and turned to find Dig. “Oh! My friend, Dig, is here!” she said. “Yay!”

“Hi, Felicity,” Dig greeted, chuckling a little as she squirmed in Oliver’s arms.

For his part, Oliver looked absolutely miserable. He carefully set Felicity on her feet, but had to keep an arm around her to keep her upright. “You okay?” he asked.

Felicity whipped her head around to him, then grasped at his chest and swayed a little. “Woah,” she said. “Is the lair turning?”

“Having a good night,” Dig asked.

Felicity straightened, grinning broadly at him. “I am! A very pretty lady hit on me upstairs. She said I had hair like spun gold.” 

Oliver’s frown very nearly set Dig into undignified laughter, so he focused on his tiny drunken friend. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Felicity nodded, almost too hard -– she listed sideways until Oliver moved closer and straightened her up. She turned a grin up to him and patted his arm where it banded around her rib cage. “Thank you, Ol’ver. You’re very straight.” Then she frowned. “I mean, this way.” Felicity waved a hand in the air a little, and Dig exchanged a confused look with Oliver.

“What?” Oliver asked.

“I don’ know if you’re  _straight_  straight,” she explained. “I mean you’re  _straight_.” Felicity paused, her brow furrowed as she thought about what she’d said. Then she nodded. “Yes.”

Oliver blinked. “Okay.”

“’m not talking about sexual preference,” she said, carefully enunciating syllables. “’Cause it’s a range, not a...” She trailed off, frowning. “You know?”

Dig coughed to cover his snicker, while Oliver shook his head a little helplessly. “No.”

“S’okay,” Felicity told him, patting his chest a little haphazardly. “You don’ have to choose. Like me!” she finished brightly.

Dig just pressed his palm to his mouth to try to stifle his amusement. 

Oliver tugged Felicity a little closer. “Okay,” he answered, uncertainly.

Felicity nodded, her expression serious as she focused on him. “My sexual preference is often,” she declared. 

“I think that’s my cue,” Dig declared, turning to grab his jacket.

“No!” Oliver yelped. “You can’t –- you need to help me get Felicity home.” 

“Don’ wanna go home,” Felicity complained. Then she shimmied against Oliver, turning to face him fully and wriggling her hips. “Wanna dance.”

Oliver’s panic face was really quite something as he reached out for Dig with his free hand. “You can’t leave,” he half-shouted. “Dig.”

“Yes!” Felicity exclaimed, whirling in Oliver’s grasp to face Dig. “Let’s all go dance!” 

“I think we should all go to bed,” Dig answered.

Felicity frowned. “Together? Hmm.”

“No!” Oliver shouted. “Not-- not together. No one is going to bed with anyone else.”

Dig smirked at him. “Not yet.”

“Dig,” Oliver warned.

Unrepentant, Dig stepped forward and reached for Felicity. “How about we go for a drive, Felicity?”

She nodded eagerly, her ponytail bouncing. “Better threesome,” she decided. 

Oliver ended up carrying her out to the car, and they were less than a mile from Verdant before Felicity passed out with her head on Oliver’s lap. Dig shook his head and kept driving.

These idiots.

-30-


	59. Prompt Response: olicity, “Stop undressing me with your eyes and start using your teeth.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> darhkfelicity asked: olicity + “Stop undressing me with your eyes and start using your teeth.”
> 
> Dialogue only! :)

 

“Felicity.”

“Yes, Oliver.”

“Why are you sitting all the way over there?”

“Considering I’m the person  _in bed_  and you’re the person, you know,  _not_  in bed, I don’t know why you’re asking dumb questions.”

“Since when is our sex life limited to beds?”

“Well... I mean, you make an interesting point. But a solid two-thirds of our sexual encounters have  _actually_  been–-”

“You keep track?”

“Well... no. Not  _intentionally_. And I wouldn’t publish that two-thirds statistic without doing some serious thinking and documenting–-”

“Felicity.”

“I have an excellent memory, Oliver. So I...  _remember things_.”

“And yet you forgot to put on underwear tonight.”

“Oh, no, that was 100% intentional.”

“Felicity.”

“I did it for you.”

“You did it to  _torture_ me.”

“No, I did it to  _help_  you.”

“How did obsessing over your incredible ass in that tight dress  _help_  me, Felicity?”

“You’re a  _much_  better public speaker when you don’t get stuck in your own head.”

“...excuse me?”

“You don’t need to be  _Oliver Queen, Charming Billionaire_  to win people over, Oliver. You -– the  _real_  you –- is more than enough. You’re very lovable.”

“I...”

“And electable.”

“I still don’t understand how me thinking about tugging that dress up and fucking you in the supply closet while I was giving a speech was intended to help me?”

“Well, you weren’t nervous, right?”

“Felicity.”

“I think what you’re trying to say is  _thank you, Felicity, my super-smart girlfriend_.”

“Actually, no.”

“No!?”

“No. I was thinking you should stop undressing me with your eyes and start using your teeth.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“ _Yeah_. If that’s your platform, I will cheerfully -–  _eagerly –-_ vote for you on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“Get that cute ass over here so I can tear your clothes off.”

-30-


	60. Prompt Response: olicity, "Kiss the hell out of me. Please."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ernbrella asked: "Kiss the hell out of me. Please."
> 
> [sorry, RL delayed the last couple of these prompts!]

 

“You’re okay?”

“Felicity–-”

“Oliver, answer me. You’re okay, right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Fine as in  _not a scratch on me,_ or  _Oliver Queen fine_ , which means you have some sort of horrendous injury that needs immediate medical attention, but it hasn’t yet incapacitated you so you keep  _saying_ you’re fine when  _really_ you mean–-”

“I promise, I’m okay.”

“Good. Okay. Then we can talk about  _just how dumb that was_!”

“Felicity, I–-”

“ _No_. You just... you can’t  _do_  that, Oliver! You’re part of the team! You have back up! You don’t have to take on five guys–-”

“Three guys.”

“ _Whatever_. You don’t have to do it all by yourself.”

“I didn’t. Dig backed me up.”

“ _Because I sent him to your location, Oliver_!”

“Can we fight about this when I get back?”

“Are you almost here?”

“Yes.”

“Are you hoping I’ll calm down before you get here?”

“No.”

“No?”

“You’re hot when you’re angry.”

“Oliver! You could’ve died tonight!”

“But I didn’t. Felicity, I’m right here. Look at me –- I’m fine.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t look hurt.”

“Told you I wasn’t.”

“Yes, but sometimes you lie about that.”

“I don’t lie to you, Felicity.”

“No, you  _suck_ at lying to me. Doesn’t mean you haven’t  _tried_.”

“Felicity, I haven’t lied to you since I got back from–-”

“Nanda Parbat. I know.”

“Thank you for sending Dig to back me up.”

“I’m still a little miffed at you, Oliver.”

“I know.”

“You’re an impossible man.”

“I know that, too.”

“So you really think it’s hot when I get angry.”

“Yes.”

“ _Why_?”

“The way your chest flushes, and you get very animated, and your eyes are even more beautiful when you’re all fired up.”

“Fired up?”

“Yeah.”

“Like before?”

“Definitely.”

“Oliver?”

“Yeah?”

“Kiss the hell out of me. Please.” 

“God, yes.”

-30-


	61. Prompt Response: olicity, “You’re so cute when you’re tired, you know.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: “You’re so cute when you’re tired, you know.” Felicity to Oliver (for the thing u reblogged :p

 

Oliver, Felicity learns in the first week of their road trip, is a cuddler. Like, a wraps-himself-around-her-until-essentially-she’s-sleeping-in-a-stubbly-straight-jacket-level cuddler.

Which is cute until it’s not.

Until it’s 76 in the hotel room and the a/c won’t go past  _mildly less disgusting than outside_  in terms of its coolness and they can’t sleep. 

Well, that’s not entirely accurate.  _Felicity_  can’t sleep, but ten minutes ago Oliver just wrapped himself around her like normal and dropped off. It’s infuriating. She feels like she’s baking in his embrace, her skin slick with sweat and  _not_  the fun, sexy kind.

Nope, it’s the gross, sticky, makes-her-want-to-take-a-thousand-showers kind of sweat.

She wriggles and writhes, but Oliver is strong. And even with no tension in his muscles, his embrace is weighty. Like, literally, his biceps are like tree trunks, and she can’t even handle the dead weight that is his thigh pinning one of hers to the mattress. 

Wiggling her toes, she stares forlornly down at her feet, and at the heavy parts of Oliver’s body trapping her where she is. She’s like a sweaty wicked witch of the east, and Oliver is the house that got dropped on her.

Or something.

Sleeplessness makes her brain spin in strange directions. Though it occurs to her that she doesn’t own any red heels, and how is that even possible? She wears red a  _lot_. She should–-

 _Ugh_ , she should get herself out of Oliver’s grasp, but she can’t without his participation. He’s not a  _great_  sleeper, so she feels a little bad about elbowing him in the ribs. But unless she wants her insides to broil, she’s running out of options.

“Oliver.” She nudges him. And waits. Nothing.

“ _Oliver_.”

“Mmmmm,” he groans, insensibly, his hot breath against her sweaty neck.

“Oliver, you need to move.”

“F’lsssty?”

She goes still, grinning at the useless a/c unit under the window, because holy crap, that was adorable. He sounds like a six year old, his voice all soft and scratchy and guileless. “Are you awake?”

“Don’ wanna,” he mumbles, nuzzling his face into her upper back. Where she is totally sweating, yuck. She arches away, but he follows her, pressing a half-assed kiss to her skin.

“You can go right back to sleep,” she promises. “I just need you to let me go.”

“Not gonna,” he answers immediately. And, because he is stubborn as all hell, his arms tighten around her ribcage, meaning she can take even  _less_  un-refreshing, overheated air into her lungs. 

“Oliver, I just need–”

“No,” he interrupts, with a distinct hint of whiny-ness in his tone. “Need you here.”

“Please, I’m begging you, Oliver, I need to get up and splash cold water all over my body. I think you’re giving me heatstroke.”

He huffs a laugh against her, and one hand moves to cup her breast. “Mmm, gonna give you somethin’.”

And that’s it – Felicity is laughing and she can’t make herself stop. Because fuzzy, cuddly Oliver Queen isn’t too tired to feel her up and tell her what he’s gonna do to her. But  _later_ , because he’s really tired.

“Wh’so funny?” he demands, still stubbornly unmoving against her.

“You’re so cute when you’re tired, you know.” 

He grumbles a little. “’m not  _cute_.”

“Sorry, you’re a big bad vigilante who won’t stop snuggling his girlfriend long enough for her to cool down and fall asleep.” She’s grinning again, and when she taps his forearm, he actually shifts, rolling a bit away from he so she can flop onto her back. “Oh, thank  _God_ ,” she mutters, because even the sweltering, humid, barely-moving air in the room is less hot than 200 pounds of solid vigilante muscle.

The sheets are warm to the touch, and not actually refreshing, but she spreads her arms away from her body and tries some mind over matter. Just before she drifts off –- into dreams about volcanos and dragons, probably –- she feels Oliver’s big, warm hand land on hers. “G’night,” she whispers.

-30-


	62. Inspired by tumblr post about how Felicity will get away with EVERYTHING by being so adorable.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [the tumblr post](http://machawicket.tumblr.com/post/130571985737/yet-i-remain-quiet-im-calling-it-now-the)

 

“Felicity?”

‘Hmmm?”

“Did you -– Felicity?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you even  _listening_  to me?”

“Yes, Oliver. You were rage-facing all over the place?”

“I am not  _rage_  –- Never mind. Listen, did you eat my kale?”

“...”

“...”

“Is that a serious question?”

“You’re the only other person in the house, and my kale is gone.”

“Oh.”

“Felicity?”

‘”Well... I definitely didn’t eat it. Are you–- Are you grinding your teeth?”

“Where. Is. My. Kale?”

“You know Jessica down the street? The little brown-haired girl with the braids? She’s ten, I think?”

“Felicity, why are you–-?”

“She has a tortoise.”

“What?”

“Jessica from down the street. Has a tortoise.”

“O...kay. Can we circle back to the mystery of my missing kale?”

“Well, it’s related. See, tortoises eat kale. As it turns out.”

“You... you gave my kale to a  _turtle_?”

“ _Tortoise_. Turtles are primarily water-based, while tortoises–-”

“Felicity!”

“Bam-Bam was hungry!”

"I... don’t know what to say to that. No, Felicity.  _Don’t_.”

“Don’t what, Oliver?”

“Don’t give me that face. I was planning to eat that kale today, and–-”

“And you’re  _very_  welcome.”

“Felicity!”

“...”

“You can’t just  _adorable_ your way out of this, Felicity!”

“Bet I can if you’d just stand still for ten seconds.”

“Felicity, you-–”

“I love you.”

“You’re impossible to stay mad at, you know that?”

-30-


	63. Ep 4x04-Related Ficlet

 

The third time Felicity checks her phone and frowns, that familiar crinkle of consternation appearing on her forehead, Oliver can’t stop himself from moving closer. She’s standing near her array of monitors, staring down at her phone and nibbling on her lip. They’re not alone in the lair, but Diggle is training and Thea is focused on the grindstone, sharpening arrows, so Oliver figures he has time to try to fix whatever’s bothering Felicity.

Even though she’s told him –- _a lot_  –- that his need to  _fix_  things is incredibly sweet, but perhaps misguided. Well, the  _first_  time she’d expressed this point of view, she’d said “sweet but misguided.” The third conversation, she’d used her incredibly loud voice about his “incessant need to fix everything instead of just commiserating.”  And by the seventh or eighth discussion on the same topic, he’s pretty sure she’d thrown the word “dumbass” around.

But he’s learned that he’s helpless when it comes to Felicity –- if she’s upset, he has to try to make her feel better. So he steps up onto her command central dais and moves to her side with a quiet, “Hey.”

He runs his palm down her spine, and gives her what he hopes is an encouraging face when she glances up with a distracted, “Hmmm?”

“Everything okay?” he asks.

She smiles up at him, but it’s half-hearted –- like someone has managed to turn down the sun. “Sure,” she answers. “Just–-” She waves her phone in lopsided circles– “work stuff. Curtis. He’s...” She trails off, her lips pursing in that adorable way that he’s normally compelled to kiss.

But Oliver realizes that now is not really the time, so he lets his hand drift to her shoulder and squeezes lightly. “He’s what?” Oliver prompts. Because if Curtis is the root of Felicity’s problems, he is more than willing to handle things. Sure, she’s the CEO and he has no say in personnel matters, but he can certainly manage to bump into someone and have a brief discussion about appropriate boundaries and the need to make sure he doesn’t piss off Oliver by pissing off Felicity.

A conversation which would, itself, piss Felicity off, but Oliver is choosing to ignore that at the moment.

“Exuberant,” Felicity says, then nods once, like she’s belatedly approving her own word choices. And how is every single things he does just endlessly adorable?

Oliver realizes he’s smiling goofily at her, that smile that only she can draw out of him, and he shakes his head slightly. “ _Too_  exuberant?” he asks. “Because I can talk to–-”

“Ohhhh, no,” Felicity interrupts, “I don’t need you to talk to anyone about anything.” She tips her head a bit. “Palmer Tech-wise, I mean. Plus, I’m not sure you’d like Curtis.”

Oliver blinks. “Do you not like Curtis?” Because Felicity has excellent instincts. Maybe she’s picking up on something more sinister than just... whatever work-related thing Curtis has done to put that stress-related crinkle on her forehead.

“No!” Felicity answers, finally turning to face him fully. She splutters a little as she tries to explain, “I mean -– no, I don’t  _not_  like-– I mean, I  _like_  Curtis.”

Oliver realizes that he’s somehow misread her reactions up until now –- or at least his misunderstood the cause of her frustration. He knows from the tone of her voice that she likes Curtis and respects him, which leaves Oliver even more confused. “Okay,” he answers slowly.

“Curtis is great.” Felicity pats his chest absently. “Really. I just have a sudden appreciation for what talking to me must be like.”

Oliver is  _completely_  lost. “Huh?” he asks. And then grimaces, because he’s pretty sure mayoral candidates should more articulate than that.

Felicity smiles up at him. “He’s just got a lot going on-–” She lifts her arm to gesture towards her forehead and nearly thwacks herself with her phone; the exasperated face she makes in reaction makes Oliver grin–- “up here. Like me.” Her eyes widen. “Not that  _you_  don’t, obviously! That’s not what I –- I just meant, it’s difficult to follow Curtis’s train of thought when it really gets chugging along. And I’m self-aware enough to know that I can get a little...” She pauses, her head tilting as she searches for the right word.

“Adorable?” Oliver supplies, because she really, really is.

Lifting up onto her tiptoes, Felicity presses a kiss to his jaw. “You’re sweet.”

“Truthful,” Oliver corrects, slipping his arm down around her ribs and pulling her in closer. “And if talking to Curtis is anything like talking to you, I’m not sure why you think that would make me  _not_  like him.”

She melts into him a little, some of the tension in her frame lessening. “Oliver, remember those conversations we’ve had about you trying to fix things.”

It’s Oliver’s turn to tense up. “I distinctly remember you calling me a dumbass, yes,” he says, trying to keep his tone neutral. Because, honestly, he knows sometimes he can be, for lack of a better word, a  _dumbass_. And he knows that Felicity knows it’s always coming from a place of love, however frustrating she finds him.

Slipping her arms around him, she presses closer and tips her head back to meet his gaze. “I didn’t call  _you_  a dumbass,” she protests. “I said you were acting  _like_ a dumbass.”

Oliver shakes his head a little bit, fighting an ill-timed smile. “That’s not much of a distinction.”

This time, when Felicity beams at him, it’s with the full force of her brightness. “This? What we’re doing right now?” she says, lowering her voice and pressing another kiss to the edge of his jaw.

Oliver can’t resist dipping his head down and murmuring “Foreplay?” into her ear.

But Felicity laughs and digs her fingers into his back. “Smartass.”

He slides his lips along her neck, just below her ear. “I guess that’s better than being a dumbass.”

One of her hands slips dangerously low on his back. “I’m just saying that this? You talking to me when I’m wound up? This is so much better than you storming off to confront Curtis for making me upset.”

It shouldn’t surprise him anymore than she can always guess what he’s thinking. Because his first instinct with her will always be to do whatever it takes to keep her safe and happy. But he trusts her incredible brain and impeccable instincts to let her call the shots. So he tightens his arms, hugging her close for a moment, then eases up just enough so he can lean down and kiss her.

He really does mean to keep it relatively chaste, in deference to Dig and Thea, but it’s been months and months since he and Felicity started things and they’re just as combustible as the first week. So predictably things get a little _heated_  before Oliver manages to stop kissing her. 

Felicity grins lazily up at him. “Hey,” she says softly.

“Hey,” Oliver answers, and he can tell he’s got that goofy smile on his face again. “Can you take a dinner break?” he asks. “Because I can think of a couple other ways to handle you when you’re...  _wound up_.”

“Yup,” Felicity answers brightly. “Yes, yup, food. We should get some. Food, I mean.” She nods at him. Then she takes a couple steps backwards, raising her voice as she grabs her purse. “Dig, Thea, we’re gonna go grab dinner. Be back soon.”

Oliver is already tugging her towards the door when he hears Diggle snort. “Dinner. Yeah, okay.”

-30-


	64. Not-Exactly-a-Prompt Response: olicity, drunk!Felicity talking about their sex life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> surejan99:
> 
> Okay but imagine a drunk Felicity just confessing all the the sexual stuff she’s done with Oliver in front of the team and Oliver is like…

 

“No!” Felicity says, getting louder and louder as she tries to talk while she’s laughing. And drunk. Or at least tipsy. 

Thea seems delighted with this turn of events, sitting with her chin in her hand and grinning at Felicity across the table. Diggle leans back a little in his seat, one skeptical eyebrow up as his gaze shifts between Felicity and Oliver, who finds himself beaming at his girlfriend as she tilts a little, leaning on him. 

“Oliver, remember?” she says, tapping his chest clumsily with the back of her hand. He eases his arm around her shoulder as she continues. “We saw that movie in...” She stops, frowning. “Where were we?”

“Denver,” Oliver supplies, pausing to take a sip of his beer. “But that’s not–-”

“Oh! Denver,” Felicity repeats, her smile sliding into more of a smirk. Oliver feels a sudden dread as her hand lands on his thigh and starts to slide up. “I remember  _Denver_.”

Thea looks puzzled. “What does Denver have to do with  _Fury Road_?”

But Felicity is tipsy and grinning and Oliver knows what’s coming. So to speak. Because, yeah, he certainly remembers Denver. And that night at the movies.  _Ignoring_  the movie, mostly, because she’d been wearing a  _really_  short skirt, and she’d bitten his earlobe during the previews, and– “Felicity, we shouldn’t–-”

“Denver,” she tells Thea, “is memorable for things  _other_  than the movie we saw.” Felicity winks at him with most of her face, because she’s a terrible winker sober and she is most certainly  _not_ sober if she’s telling  _his sister_  about their sex life. “Not that we actually  _saw_  much of the movie since Mr. Handsy over here-–”

“Okay!” Diggle nearly shouts, as Thea makes an exaggerated gagging noise and buries her face in her hands.

“That’s my  _brother_ ,” she moans. “Gross!”

Felicity blinks in confusion, her mouth forming a little “O” of surprise. Oliver can’t decide whether to laugh at his drunken, adorable girlfriend, or try to make her  _stop talking_  by any means necessary. “Felicity, I don’t think–-”

“I can’t believe  _you’re_  trying to shush me,” she interrupts, mock-glaring at him. “I mean,” she continues, dropping her voice to what she probably thinks is a whisper, “ _four times_ , Oliver!”

“I’m out,” Diggle announces, pushing himself up from the table. “Way too much information.”

“Yup,” Thea says, before upending her glass and chugging the rest of her drink. She slams the empty glass back onto the table. “Pretty sure I’ll be traumatized by _that_  information for the next...  _ever.”_

Oliver knows he should be embarrassed, but he’s really not. Keeping Felicity in as many orgasms as possible is one of his most important life goals. So he watches Thea push herself to her feet with a grin, and tells Diggle, “I think the drinks are on Felicity tonight.”

Diggle stands to go with a nod. “Damn straight,” he says. “Make sure she drinks some water.” And then he follows Thea to the door.

Felicity looks crestfallen. “Are we going home? I’ve only had like three drinks, though,” she tells Oliver. 

So he tugs her closer and leans in, nipping her earlobe. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“Mmmmm,” she responds, her fingers tightening on his thigh. “Like Denver?”

“No,” Oliver murmurs, pressing open-mouthed kisses along her neck. “Like  _Santa Fe,”_ he says, and laughs into her skin when she moans.

-30-


	65. Prompt Response: olicity + oliver/diggle brotp, who is gonna write me a fic post 4x03 where oliver cooks for diggle chicken cordon bleu to celebrate rekindling their relationship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ohmypreciousgirl said: okay, but who is gonna write me a fic post 4x03 where oliver cooks for diggle chicken cordon bleu to celebrate rekindling their relationship and they are at oliver’s place, just dinning and catching up when felicity opens the door and stops abruptly at the scene in front of her.
> 
> and then she raises a brow and says “am i interrupting something?”

 

Felicity is moving fast when she gets to the loft. She told Oliver she’d be home for dinner, but it’s 8:30, and she can’t read tone of voice via text, so while he _texted_  not to worry –- well, she does worry. She hates disappointing him. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she apologizes, bursting through the door –- and then she stops short, eyes wide, her bag banging into her side as she stares at the sight before her.

Oliver and John, kicking back on the sofa, each with a beer in hand as they turn matching (and slightly dopey) grins her way. That would be weird enough (though definitely  _good_  weird), but the fireplace is casting a warm glow over the room, there’s evidence of wine and dinner on the table, and -– the piece de resistance -– elegant taper candles burning romantically away.

“Felicity!” John greets her. “We saved you some dinner.”

“And some wine,” Oliver adds with a soft smile. “Are you hungry now?”

Felicity blinks. “I’m not sure -– am I interrupting something?”

From the immediate laughter, she knows they’re both pleasantly buzzed, and she can’t help but smile at them. It’s such a relief to see them like this again –- brothers in arms.

Oliver gives an unapologetic shrug. “I like the ambiance.”

She smirks at John. “Did he woo you? Turns out he’s pretty good at it.”

“Please,” John answers with a fake, forced grimace, “keep those kinds of details to yourself.”

“There’s chicken cordon bleu, Felicity,” Oliver says, a hint of sing-song-y temptation in his voice. 

“Real good chicken cordon bleu,” John adds, then takes swig of beer. Noticing Felicity’s amused gaze he says, “What? A man can’t like a nice chicken cordon bleu?”

She beams at him. “I’ll leave you to it,” she says, hooking a thumb towards the stairs. “I need to shower anyway.”

“Felicity,” Oliver says, and she knows without looking he’s got a bit of a pout on his face. “Let me warm you up some dinner.”

She continues up the stairs, waving down at them. “I’m fine, I had something at the office. Besides, I wouldn’t want to interrupt your date!”

-30-


	66. Prompt Response: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH WARNING, I Imagine Death So Much It Feels More Like a Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blame @darlinginmyway. 
> 
> **major character death**

 

**I Imagine Death So Much It Feels More Like a Memory**

 

He’s imagined his own death a thousand times.

As a young, privileged, protected kid, he’d thought himself bulletproof. Immune to death. But after the Gambit, after his father’s sacrifice, he’d gotten a crash course in the fragility of life. He’d learned how easily it could be snuffed out.

He imagined dying of starvation, those lonely first days on the island.

He imagined a hundred idiotic ways to try to escape the island, and then imagined a thousand different ways he’d die trying.

Later, he imagined dying to save others –- Yao Fei, Shado, Slade, Sara, Anatoly, Maseo, Tatsu, Akio. Half of them died for him, or because of him, and sometimes he wished he’d died instead. He wished that so often it scared him.

So he hardened his heart, became a killer. He imagined he’d die on the job, or trying to escape Waller or the Bratva. But he just kept surviving, while people died around him.

Once he was back in Starling, he imagined he’d right as many of his father’s wrongs as he could before dying under the hood.

It wasn’t until he fell in love with Felicity that he realized that he wanted to  _live_. 

All he’s wanted the past year is to have a life with her, for however long they have together. He understands the danger in being the Green Arrow, even though he’s more careful now. Even though he has a team. He could still die out there.

He still imagines it sometimes, only these days, those thoughts are accompanied by grief at the idea of leaving Felicity behind.

But he never,  _ever_  thought it would be her. 

It was never supposed to be  _her_  lying on the polished marble floor of Darhk’s apartment. Oliver’s seen enough death to know that she’s bleeding out too fast for anyone to save her, but he refuses to believe it.

It was never supposed to be Felicity with blood on her lips as he kneels over her, pressing so hard on the wound that it must be hurting her.

It was never supposed to be the woman he loves more than he’d ever imagined possible -– it was  _never_  supposed to be Felicity gazing up at him with tears streaking down her face, trying to smile for him, trying to tell him to live without her.

“No,” he says, and it’s the first time he realizes he’s crying, too. “No, Felicity. No, this isn’t–- This isn’t  _right_.” 

 _It’s not supposed to be you_.

“Oliver,” she manages, and her voice saying his name is his favorite sound in the whole world. Even now, even when it’s shaking with pain and so breathless it makes him increase the pressure on the gaping wound. “Love you.”

“I love you,” he chokes out. “You can’t leave me. Felicity, you–- You  _can’t_  leave me.”

Her breathing is labored, her fingers slackening where they’re wrapped around his wrist. She tries to lift a hand to his face but runs out of energy –- his stomach turns when her arm drops limply to the floor beside her.

“Oliver,” she whispers. “My love.”

His chest aches; burns. “Felicity.” He leans closer, inches from her face, holds her gaze as she struggles to stay conscious, to stay  _alive_. “Felicity,  _please_.”

For one glorious moment, her eyes brighten and she smiles at him. 

For that one long moment, he can’t see the blood, can’t see the deathly pallor of her skin, he can only see  _her_. 

Then she squeezes his wrist faintly and breathes, “I’ll see you on the other side.”

Her eyes fall shut and Oliver leans in, feeling the faintest exhale against his skin before he presses a kiss to her lips. “Felicity,” he murmurs, “ _please_.”

She doesn’t answer. 

-30-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With additional blame to Lin-Manuel Miranda and the entirety of _Hamilton_ for its life-ruining inspiration.


	67. Smutty Ficlet:  olicity, their first night in that bed in the loft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First [I had questions](http://machawicket.tumblr.com/post/133317698757/machawicket-emilybuttrickards-olicity-his) about that lovely platform bed, and then I had a LOT of (smutty) feelings about this bed.

 

The first night in their new bed in the loft, Felicity giggles a string of “queen-sized” jokes into Oliver’s chest as he shifts beneath her, frustrated. 

“Felicity, could you please–-?”

“It’s just -– It’s a little on the nose, isn’t it?” she manages, pressing soft kisses to the bare skin of his chest. “Oliver Queen in a queen-sized bed?” She wriggles a little on him, shifting until his erection is right where she needs it, the layers of cotton between them be damned.

“It’s a bed, Felicity,” he says, and she can hear the smile and the exasperation in his voice. A big warm hand slips under her tank top, sliding the material up her spine.

“Good place to have sex,” she comments, running her fingers so, so lightly across his abdomen, watching the muscles clench in reaction.

“Yeah,” he agrees, and his tone is full of  _that’s what I’ve been angling for_ , and she only feels slightly bad for the joke-related detour she’d taken them on. “We should do that.”

“We should,” she agrees. “Really test it out.” Felicity presses her palms into his chest and shifts, eliciting a groan from him when she sits up and grinds down onto him. “Make sure it’s structurally sound.” 

Oliver’s eyes darken, his mouth hanging open a little as he gazes at her. “Good plan,” he agrees, his voice husky with arousal. His fingers dig into her hips, holding her still so he can thrust up against her. She lifts her tank top off, laughing when he immediately sits up, sucking a nipple into his mouth. 

They’re half-naked, which is good, but she can’t get her sleep shorts off when she’s straddling him, and she needs him inside her, like, yesterday. Grabbing that ridiculous jaw of his with both hands, she urges his mouth from her breast, tilting her face down to kiss him a little desperately. 

Felicity basically flops off of him onto the mattress, reaching for the waistband of her sleep shorts. “Pants off,” she orders, tossing the rest of her clothes in the direction of the large windows.

Oliver grins and complies, shucking his pants and rolling onto her as quickly as he can. “Yes, ma’am,” he breathes into her mouth, bracing his weight on his left elbow. He reaches for her leg with his free hand, yanking it up around his hips before he slides inside her. He pauses briefly to groan at the connection, then starts to move. Hard. And a little desperate.

“Ohhh,” she says, arching her neck to break the kiss. Oliver moves on to her neck, sucking that spot that gets her going. Felicity braces one hand against the slick wooden headboard. “Seems pretty sturdy,” she mumbles.

“What?” he asks, lifting his head to meet her gaze.

“The bed,” she answers, and if her voice is a little high and thready and kind of breathless, well, who can blame her? She usually prefers being on top, but something about Oliver’s pace tonight is really working for her.  _Really_  working. She’s about thirty seconds from a shattering orgasm, if he’d just  _keep going_.

Instead, he gives a hard thrust and pauses. “What about the bed?” he asks. She draws her fingernails down his side and he shivers against her.

“Solid purchase,” she manages. 

“Felicity,” he murmurs, shifting against her, pulling her other leg higher as she tilts her hips, and that’s–-  _Really_  great.

“Yeah?” She hitches, writhing a little beneath him as he increases the intensity. 

He reaches between them, coaxing her higher and higher. “Why are you talking about the fucking bed right now?” he growls

 _Growls_. It shouldn’t be that hot, but she just needs–- 

Oliver’s thumb finds her clit and she is coming, both palms pressed flat against the headboard as she arches off the bed. He follows her pretty quickly, and then she’s happily pinned beneath his bulk as they both take in big lungfuls of air.

Sliding her arms around his rib cage, she presses sloppy kisses to his shoulder. “Mmm,” she says. “Love this bed.”

Oliver huffs a laugh and lifts himself up enough to stare down at her. “This _bed_  didn’t just fuck you senseless,” he points out, sounding offended.

But Felicity just runs her hands soothingly up and down his back, beaming at him. “Well, duh,” she says. “That would be super creepy.”

Oliver leans in and nips at her earlobe. “Felicity,” he grumbles.

“I love you, too,” she whispers into his neck.

-30-

_Yeah, I have no idea what just happened._


	68. Dialogue-Only Ficlet:  olicity, mint chocolate chip cookies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Scu11y22 innocently posted](http://machawicket.tumblr.com/post/133341096267/fans-of-mint-chocolate-chip-ice-cream-absolutely):
> 
> _Yeah I’ve lost it. Immediately thought of Felicity Smoak as if she were a real person._
> 
> _So do you think these are simple enough for her to cook?_
> 
> And then this happened.

 

 

“I made cookies!”

“They’re... Felicity, they’re green.”

“No! I mean,  _yes_ , they’re green, but that’s on purpose.”

“...”

“Really!”

“Why...  _why_ are the cookies green? Because I love you, Felicity, but your kitchen skills are...”

“Clearly you are not looking for any demonstrations of my  _bedroom_  skills if you’re criticizing–-”

“Not criticizing, I promise. Just... you remember the strangely pink-toned scrambled eggs that one time?”

“Yes, but–-”

“And the bluish tinge to the homemade whip cream?”

“Okay, sure, but  _these_  are mint chocolate chip cookies!  _Mint_. So they’re supposed to be green!”

“Oh.”

“ _Oh_? I believe you owe me an apology, mister! I even used  _fresh mint_  from your little herb garden on the roof. They’re fancy -– no,  _artisanal_ mint chocolate chip cookies!”

“Oh, no.”

“What?”

“Felicity, there’s... I don’t have mint in the herb garden.”

“You don’t have...? But the mojitos? With the fresh mint leaves that you smooshed?”

“Muddled. And I  _had_  mint, but used the last of it.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Those weren’t mint leaves.”

“Did they  _smell_  like mint leaves?”

“Oliver, how am I supposed to know what–?”

“They smell like  _mint,_ Felicity. Strongly of mint.”

“Oh. So, uh... what  _is_  in the herb garden?”

“I’m... Felicity, I’m pretty sure these are  _basil_  chocolate chip cookies.”

“Basil.”

“Yeah.”

“Not mint.”

“Right.”

“That sounds gross.”

“...”

“It’s okay, Oliver, you can say it.”

“Nope, I’m not risking access to those bedroom skills of yours.”

-30-


	69. Episode-Related Ficlet: 4x08, olicity, Sometimes I process my rage through ficlets!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst warning.

 

The picture is gorgeous.

She’s been on the couch in their home for the past hour, studying it and ignoring the accompanying text. Because she doesn’t need anything other than this picture to understand. And, honestly, the headline -–  _A Little Prince!?_  -– does not instill much confidence in TMZ’s ability to explain what is apparently happening to her world. 

It’s so obvious, looking at this picture, that the boy is Oliver’s son. The boy is adorable -– maybe 10 years old, clutching what she is almost sure is a Flash action figure in one hand, and Oliver’s hand in the other. They’re in a park in Central City -– Felicity is pretty sure she was there with Barry once upon a time –- standing near the food truck, drenched in sunlight. And Oliver is...

Her heart clenches at the look on Oliver’s face as he smiles down at his son –- he’s _happy_. She knows what love looks like on Oliver, and he so very obviously loves that boy in the way Oliver loves his family -– wholeheartedly and without reservation. He has always been willing to do  _anything_  for his family, up to and including sacrificing his own life and his own happiness, or taking on the burden of righting someone else’s wrongs. There’s a self-abnegating quality to Oliver’s love that Felicity recognizes –- it’s the way she loves him, actually. She knows that because her first reaction to all of this is to be  _so glad_  for him that he  _has_ more family to love.

Oliver has lost so much, so many people. Felicity wants him to be happy, to be surrounded by family, because that’s what the Oliver she knows has always wanted.

Her happiness for him -– it’s almost enough to drown out her own heartache at what happens next. Almost.

Sometimes, she wishes she weren’t as smart as she is. Because the moment she absentmindedly checked the TMZ alert on his name, the moment she saw this picture, she knew. The pieces came together with startling clarity –- this boy, Oliver’s son, lives in Central City. This boy is the secret he’s been keeping for nearly a month. 

Oliver, for reasons she understands all too well, has chosen to keep her separate from this newly discovered member of his family, despite his inability to lie and his truly unbelievable cover stories. (He’d explained that morning that he was going to an archery shop in Central City for important arrow-related reasons; Felicity purchases the components of his arrows online through about fourteen different dummy companies.) 

A secret, she could maybe understand, but he’s been lying to her. 

Her stomach churns, and she remembers with gut-wrenching clarity what it felt like a year ago, when Oliver was half-in and half-out with her, when he was lying because he thought he should make decisions –-  _self-sacrificing_ decisions -– for everyone else in his life. But then finally  _finally_  he’d chosen himself. He’d chosen what he wants, and it’d been her. Slowly, haltingly, he’d told her painful bits and pieces as they traveled the country, and then settled down together. She’d believed him when he promised her no more lies.

Which, as it turns out, is itself a lie –- and the only one he’s ever convincingly told her.

Felicity swipes the tears from her cheeks, but can’t quite make herself stop crying. Because now she understands -– he loves her, yes, but she is not his family. He used to know two things, Thea and Felicity, and she suspects now he knows three –- his son, his sister, and his girlfriend. It’s not that she believes she should come first in all things; it’s that she thinks maybe he should -– maybe he is  _already_  turning his attention to his family.

She thinks maybe it’s time for her to take a step back.

The door bursts open and Oliver spills into the loft, as uncoordinated and panicky as she’s ever seen him. 

“Felicity,” he says, and he’s breathing hard and she wonders if he ran all the way up from the parking garage. She wonders if he sped all the way home. She wonders how he found out -– if Thea called him, or maybe John.

“Hi,” she says, belatedly.

Oliver approaches a bit warily, dropping down to crouch in front of her. His hands tremble a bit as he reaches for her, then hesitates. “Felicity, please, can I explain?”

She shakes her head, and blinks away the tears she has no intention of shedding. “No, Oliver, there’s nothing to explain. You have a son.” She’s smiling at him, and she means it when she says, “He’s beautiful, Oliver.” She really is so happy for him. He’ll be a wonderful father. From the look of that picture, he already is.

“Felicity–-”

“Am I supposed to congratulate you?” she wonders. “I know that’s a thing for a new baby, and he’s certainly not a baby, but you just found out about him three and a half weeks ago, so maybe I should still offer–-”

“ _Please_ ,” he interrupts, eyes wide and shining with tears. “Felicity, there’s–- his mother doesn’t know me, not anymore, and she doesn’t trust me–-”

“I’m gonna stay with John and Lyla,” Felicity says, and she can’t believe these words are coming out of her mouth. She doesn’t want to leave him, leave them, but something has been broken between them, and she doesn’t have the strength to fix it. Not right now.

Oliver is thunderstruck, lips pressed tightly together, tears on his cheeks now as he shakes his head. “No, Felicity,  _please_ , I love you.” He tips forward, knees hitting the ground a little too hard, and inches closer to her.

“I know,” she says. And she does know that. She reaches for his hands; they’re warm and familiar and the last thing in the world she wants is to let him go. “I love you, too,” she whispers. The naked fear on his face lessens, and he scoots a little bit closer. “I really love you, Oliver, and you should spend as much time as you can getting to know–-” She stops, sniffles. “I don’t even know his name.” That seems like something she should know about Oliver's son.

“William,” Oliver answers, the name warm and familiar when he speaks it aloud, and she wonders how many times he's seen William; how many hours he's spent with his son.

Felicity echoes, “William.” She squeezes his hands, her chest tightening with the effort of not crying. “It’s a lovely name.”

Oliver is smiling, even though there are still tears in his eyes as he watches her so closely. “He’s nine, and he’s so smart, and he loves the Flash, and I want you in his life  _with_  me, but Samantha is–-”

“I get it,” Felicity interrupts softly. “I don’t want to get in the way of–-”

“You’re  _not_ ,” he says, wide-eyed and vehement. “I swear, Felicity. You could  _never_ be in the way.”

She looks down at their hands, at how fiercely he’s holding onto her. “He’s your family,” she says with a shrug. “That’s all I need to know.” His smile turns a little bit to relief, and that pressure in her chest increases. Maybe he just doesn’t want to be the one to call this? Or maybe she should just be thankful this isn’t going to turn into a huge blowout.

“Okay,” he says. “Good, okay. I’ve been trying to convince Samantha that I’m not that fuckup she remembers.”

“You’re not,” she says, then she tugs her hands free and uses his shoulder to help maneuver to her feet around him. 

She hears the rustle of fabric as he shifts behind her, then his footsteps following her as she heads to the staircase. She wonders if he intends to watch her pack.

Oliver sounds worn and tired when he asks, “Where are you going?”

“I need to pack. I should’ve done that–-”

“What? Felicity, wait–- You can’t–-”

She turns back to him, one hand in the air to fend him off. He stops abruptly, looking panicky and desperate. She takes a shaky breath. “I’m not mad at you for having a child, Oliver. I would never begrudge you another person to love, another person who loves you. I’m hurt that you kept such an important person a secret from me, but I could probably have–-”

“Felicity,  _please_ –-”

“I,” she raises her voice and keeps going, “could probably have gotten past that pretty quickly. But what I can’t get over right now is that you lied to me.”

“No,” he protests. “I–- I didn’t-– I-–” He stutters to a stop, bereft. 

Felicity just watches him, her throat aching, her  _heart_  aching. She wants to comfort him, but she just can’t right now. “Why did you lie to me, Oliver?”

He’s staring at the floor, tears once again on his cheeks, hands clenched in fists at his side. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” she asks again, even though that voice in the back of her head knows why. “Help me understand?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” he whispers, and she can hear the regret, the  _shame_  in his voice. “Samantha would only let me meet him if I kept it a secret.” He takes a breath, looks up, meets her eyes. “From everyone.”

The flare of anger in Felicity’s chest is nearly all-consuming, but she fights it off to simply say, “She can’t do that, Oliver. She can’t keep him from you.” How dare she even try? What kind of person would say that to someone who’s just learned he’s the father to a nine year old?

“I know, but it’s a delicate situation,” he says, his tone begging for understanding, for forgiveness. “I need to earn her trust so that–-”

“Are you his father, Oliver?” she interrupts, cutting right to the quick of the only thing that matters.

He blinks at her. “Yes,” he answers. “I am. I had Ba-– I had a DNA test run to confirm, but I–- I knew when I saw him.”

“William deserves to know,” Felicity says, and her voice is shaky and weak, but she pushes on. “He deserves to have a father. And I know-–” She has to stop for a moment, her hand pressing against her mouth as if she can possibly hold the sobs in. “I know you’ll be such a great father, Oliver.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he confesses. “Felicity, I don’t think I can do this without you.”

But she’s already stepping back, already shaking her head. “I can’t.”

“Fe–-”

“I  _can’t_ , Oliver. Mostly because he’s your family,  _yours_ , and you need to prioritize that right now. But also because-–” She’s crying in earnest now, her words coming out high and thready. “Because you lied to me. Over and over. All you had to say was that you needed time. All you had to do was ask for my patience. But you told me Barry got you tickets to a game last weekend-–”

“He did,” Oliver defends, but his voice is full of defeat, his shoulders bowed under the weight of all of this.

“Don’t,” she warns. “You promised me you were done lying to me, and then you lied. I just-– We’re supposed to be partners. I don’t know how to do this with you if I can’t trust you. If you can’t trust  _me_.”

“I do trust you,” he protests. “I love you. Felicity, you know that I love you.” 

She nods. “I do know that, Oliver, but sometimes love isn’t enough. Sometimes real life takes precedence, and we both need time.”

“I don’t,” he argues immediately. “I  _hate_ the way this happened -– TMZ, you finding out like this, but you’re the first person I wanted to tell. I don’t need time, Felicity. Please,  _please_  don’t do this.”

She takes a moment, but can’t find the words to explain. Even though the seven-year-old girl who cried for her father every day for a month is so, so proud of him for  prioritizing his son over everything else, she can’t find a way to be okay with the lies; not yet, anyway. So she says, “I need time.”

He runs his palms roughly across his cheeks, then ducks his head and laces his fingers together behind his neck for a long moment. When he drops his arms and lifts his gaze back to hers, his devastation is palpable. “Okay.”

They’re both crying when she steps forward and wraps her arms around his neck, holding him, being held by him for a long moment. She breathes him in, then leans up and whispers, “Congratulations, Oliver. He’s beautiful.” She kisses his salty cheek and then steps back, moving quietly towards the staircase to pack.

-30-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah… I process through worst-case scenario kinds of things, ‘cause maybe if I write Felicity finding out from TMZ, it won’t actually happen on the show. I am not prepared to write any sort of fix-it fic until the writers give some indication of how LARGE of a liar they are trying to turn Oliver (back) into. ::grump::


	70. Fic Amnesty:  3x18 AU in which Felicity is injured and not with Ray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note: I started writing a longer, structured piece at the beginning of S3, to write my version of Oliver and Felicity finding their way back to each other. But once we met the stalkery, creepy version of Ray Palmer onscreen, I just literally couldn’t write that second segment of the story, so I put it away. When Donna Smoak + hospital spoilers came out, I revived this third part of the original story, but... then stalled out. So this is set ~3x18, but is canon divergent in that Ray and Felicity are already over.

Collapsed lungs _suck_.

It’s the first coherent thought Felicity has upon waking up in a quiet hospital room, her chest aching with each unsteady breath. When she tries to shift, she remembers suddenly and vividly, even through the fog of the drugs in her system, that the cause of her collapsed lung was an actual stab wound.

Stabbed. She was _stabbed_. 

She takes a gasping breath and feels the ache and pull along her ribcage, but kind of... distantly. 

Why was she--? 

The details are hazy and indistinct, but she can remember with stunning clarity how it felt to look down and see a knife _handle_ sticking out from between her ribs. Her eyes flutter open as she remembers the awful look on Oliver’s face, the naked terror in his eyes as he ran towards her, hands shaking as he reached for her. 

And that’s just about enough of that for now, she decides, and concentrates on her surroundings. 

When she manages to lift her eyelids at least like halfway to awake, he’s there, by her bedside. He’s holding her hand, actually, his eyes closed and his brow furrowed with stress and guilt. She inhales carefully and then squeezes his hand. 

It takes a second, but then his blue eyes fly open and he’s leaning forward. “Felicity?” 

Oh, God, his voice is wrecked. 

She opens her mouth to speak and his free hand touches her cheek, slides along her jaw. “Don’t--” His eyes are sparkling with unshed tears and he shakes his head. “Don’t try to talk. Are you in pain?”

Talking is less painful than moving, even to nod her head, so she whispers, “Kind of?” But it’s a fuzzy pain, a distant pain. She knows the painkillers are making her not really care all that much that the doctors had to _re-inflate her lung_ down in the E.R., a process that was _the_ most excruciating thing in the entire world, and something that Oliver witnessed with actual tears running down his face even as he held her hand and tried to distract her with words.

It was... bad.

Like, she made inhuman noises of anguish and then passed out-level bad.

Before that, Felicity’s pretty sure that the doctors had talked to her about what they’d have to do to make things right, but she’d been a little preoccupied with the terrifying feeling of drowning in her own body, unable to breathe right, unable to _move_ without massive pain, so she didn’t retain much of it. She figures she should probably get a better handle on how injured she is, and how much recovery time she’s going to need.

But she really doesn’t like the suppressed panic still visible in Oliver’s face. She can _feel_ it in the way he’s clinging to her hand. Did something else happen? Is he injured, too? And being a big dumb jerk and refusing treatment until she woke up? Because he would totally do that.

“You okay?” she manages, hating how wispy and sad her voice sounds. She thinks she remembers him groaning when he picked her up, but she’s pretty high and her memories are swirly and confusing.

“Felicity,” he says, and she knows he’s frustrated that she even cares about him when she’s hurt. Because he still -- _still_ \-- doesn’t understand how love works. It’s so exhausting, trying _not_ to love him.

“You’re okay,” he says, sandwiching her hand between his. “It was... it was--” He stops, shakes his head, his lips pressed tightly together.

She doesn’t want to, but she’s starting to panic a little. Everything’s off and weird and life-and-death, and he’s _so_ upset that she’s sure he’s not telling her everything. “Oliver?” she says, her voice high and thready and scared.

He half-stands, leaning close to her. “You’re okay, Felicity. I promise. The doctors, they can explain things, but you’re going to be okay.”

She studies him closely, and even drugged to the gills, she can process his face. She can read him and he’s not lying. She feels a little of her own panic ease. “‘Kay,” she manages.

His eyes close briefly, and then his free hand is on her cheek again, and he keeps running his gaze over her face like he’s trying to memorize her. 

But she can’t think about that right now, so she looks down at her body. But of course there’s nothing to see other than a pale blue hospital blanket and the vague outline of her form. She exhales a little too forcefully, then squeezes her eyes shut when her injuries protest.

She’s not entirely sure which one of them whimpers in reaction.

When the flare of pain recedes, she focuses on her neck and her shoulders, forcing them to relax; then her arms, and right on down her body, like she’s just melting into corpse pose on her yoga mat, and not lying mostly immobile in a hospital bed with a scared man -- a scared _friend_ \-- hovering over her.

Felicity opens her eyes again, but she’s getting so, so tired. “Surgery?”

“Went well,” Oliver answers immediately. “You’ll make a full recovery.” His voice is low and clogged with emotion and it’s too much, so she lets her eyes slip shut.

He’s too much when he’s like this -- when he acts like he wants her and chooses her when he actually really doesn’t. She’s had seven months of this brittle, imperfect truce, and she is exhausted.

It’s easy enough to drift in the drug haze, though she’s not asleep. She can hear the soft beeps of her monitors, and then low voices. Oliver and John and someone else. She wants to open her eyes, say hi to her nurses, but that seems like it would take entirely too much energy.

As she drops off to a drugged sleep, she feels Oliver’s fingers tracing along her forearm, her wrist, and across her palm. And then the brush of his lips against her temple.

& & &

When she wakes again, she’s a little more alert, and it’s daylight, and the hand holding hers is larger. She smiles without opening her eyes. “John.”

“Morning, Felicity,” he answers, and she can feel the warmth and affection wrap around her.

She struggles a little, stiff from lying still for so many hours, but the pain is still there, hovering. She shifts her legs a bit, groaning. “Ugh, how do you guys do this?”

“Hey,” Diggle says, pressing something cool and hard and plastic into her hand. Felicity opens her eyes, squinting a little against the brightness, and finds the bed controller in her hand. Diggle taps one of the buttons. “If you want to sit up a bit.”

She does want to, so she does -- slowly and warily. But the movement only sets off a dull kind of pain, and it relieves some of her other muscles, so overall she’ll take it. “What time is it?”

“Around seven,” he answers. “Oliver went home to shower.”

She nods, accepting both bits of information without commenting on either. “I suppose they don’t let patients drink coffee?”

“Why don’t we start with water?” Diggle answers, smiling at her.

Belatedly, Felicity realizes that she is absolutely _parched_ , and accepts the plastic cup eagerly. She spills a little, since she’s still half-sitting, but the cool liquid feels amazing on her dry throat.

“I can ask Oliver to bring coffee when he comes back.”

She flinches, then tries to cover with a noncommittal hum.

She should’ve known Diggle wouldn’t let her get away with that. “Felicity, you can’t seriously think he’d leave for more than an hour or so.”

“You guys don’t need to babysit me,” she grumbles. “I think that’s what the nurses are here for.”

He’s giving her that knowing look, and she stares back defiantly until he sighs. “I think you two need to have a conversation,” he says.

Felicity lets her eyes close for a long moment. “Not much to say.”

“Maybe you don’t have much to say,” he answers, and her eyes snap open in confusion. Diggle dips his chin. “But I think he may finally have figured some things out. It’s been a long couple of days.”

And suddenly, Felicity is so, _so_ angry that she feels tears stinging her eyes. Because _of course_ it would take her nearly dying for Oliver to maybe kind of reconsider his plan, but is that supposed to make her feel better? Or secure in whatever he claims to feel about her now? She knows he loves her -- though depending on the day, she thinks he’s not actually _in_ love with her and never really could be -- and she knows he’s lost so many people he loves that he reacts to danger. Overreacts. 

So maybe he convinced himself when she was unconscious that he loves her and he wants to try to be with her, but it doesn’t matter. It’s all wrapped up in his fight or flight response, and as soon as the adrenaline and the fear fade, he’ll remember all the reasons why he’s _not_ in love with her. All the reasons he can’t be.

And Felicity has had enough of people walking away from her to last her ten lifetimes.

When she tries to speak, she makes a garbled, half-sobbing noise that Diggle reacts to with a little bit of panic.

“Felicity? Are you in pain? Do you need the nurse?”

She shakes her head, hating so much that tears are tracking the sides of her face and down into her hair. She hates that she is still so upset about Oliver. She’s supposed to be over this by now. It’s been _months_. “Does he think I’ve been waiting?” she rasps, her voice high and thready.

Diggle’s expression shifts, and he looks relieved and worried at the same time. “That’s not what I meant, Felicity. He’s--”

“Stupid,” she interrupts.

He smiles down at her. “I’m not gonna argue with that assessment.”

“If he thinks he can tell me he loves me and then refuse to be with me and then randomly _change his mind_ because I got hurt and just expect me to--”

“He doesn’t, Felicity,” Diggle interrupts, his tone gentle. “I don’t think he expects anything. I just think he’s finally at a place where he can’t keep lying to himself about you.”

She blinks rapidly, trying to make herself stop crying. It’s probably the drugs. She’s not normally a puddle of sobs when she thinks about how stupid Oliver is with relationships. Usually she’s frustrated and angry. “I can’t go back there,” she says, not entirely sure why she’s telling John this, but the words keep coming, “I wouldn’t be able to believe anything he said about me, about us, because I know he’d just walk away again when there’s no imminent danger making him think that he feels things that he doesn’t, and I couldn’t handle that, John. I really...” She shakes her head. “I _couldn’t_. So I can’t.”

Diggle lets the silence spool out for a while, just holding her hand while she tries to calm down. Which is helpful, because crying with a sutured up stab wound and surgical incision? _Hurts_.

She lifts her free hand to her face, wiping the wetness from her cheeks and ignoring the pull of the IV taped to her hand. Her breathing slows to normal, and she sinks a little further into the pillows, suddenly really tired again, even though she just woke up.

“Felicity.”

She looks at Diggle and knows he has something he’s going to say, whether she likes it or not. She knows this look, though it’s almost always directed at Oliver, not her. She meets his gaze head on. “What?”

“I respect everything you just said,” he begins, “and I support your decisions, because you’re family and I love you and I want you to be healthy and happy.”

Stupid tears sting at her eyes again, and she swallows around a lump in her throat. The only response she can manage is, “Hmmm.”

“That said,” he continues, “Oliver is a lot of things -- stupid and stubborn about things, for sure -- and I know the way he handled things between you was... well, pretty terrible. But that man loves you.” He holds her gaze, and she can’t breathe, never mind respond. “I’ll be the first one to tell you that love isn’t enough to make things work, and maybe he screwed up too much with you to fix it. If so, that’s on him and he’s going to have to live with that. But you need to understand that he does love you. Okay?”

Felicity stares back at him, but she can’t bring herself to agree. Or to disagree, really. She knows that John believes in what he’s saying, but she can’t let herself. 

Finally, she whispers, “I’m tired.”

He looks just a little disappointed, underneath all of that worry, but he leans over and presses a kiss to her forehead. “Sleep, then, Felicity. It’ll help you feel better.”

Slowly, she lowers the bed some, and lets her eyes close, trying not to think about what he’s said. She hears him settle back into his chair, his large hand still holding hers, and she murmurs, “Thank you.”

-30-


	71. Fic Amnesty:  how Oliver ended up with the Bratva in 2011

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had intended to mimic the show structure by writing two semi-related stories: (a) a 2016-set OTA story, and (b) this 2011-set Bratva!Oliver story. Once I started writing, the tie-in between the two ideas wasn't enough to support the formalistic idea (NOTE TO THE ARROW SHOWRUNNERS, hee), so I pulled the 2011 stuff. And here's what I wrote.

**2011**

The air in Moscow is so cold that it burns his lungs.

Oliver has never really felt anything like this. He thought the drenched misery of rainy nights on Lian Yu were the coldest he would ever be, but it turns out that day in, day out of below zero temperatures and high, clear, faded blue skies are unrelentingly, bone-chillingly cold.

Anatoly just laughs when Oliver tugs a fur-lined hat down over his hair. Oliver has no vanity anymore and doesn’t care at all about how ridiculous he must look. He even refuses to cut his unruly hair or trim what is quickly becoming a full beard, despite Anatoly’s remarks, because he wants the extra insulation. He just wants to stop shivering.

“Come,” Anatoly says in his familiar accented English. Now that Oliver’s been in Russia for two weeks, Anatoly is starting to speak to him in Russian. Which Oliver doesn’t know. At all. Except for _prochnost_ , which probably shouldn’t count since Anatoly told him what that means years ago on the freighter.

Oliver follows Anatoly into the tumbledown apartment building and into the elevator that makes him think they may plummet to their death at any moment, and then along the rundown carpet lining the hallway to the south-facing apartment on the seventh floor. He hasn’t taken his giant hat off yet, because his shoulders are still up around his ears in tense protest of this unrelenting cold. A few minutes indoors aren’t enough to adjust.

When Anatoly pushes open the door at the end of the hall, Oliver halts at the threshold, dumbstruck. Because the opulent interior does not match a single other thing about this building. There are plush Oriental rugs scattered on the floor, overstuffed couches and high-backed chairs surrounding a roaring fireplace. The walls are painted deep maroon, though they’re nearly covered by wall hangings with what Oliver can recognize, now, as Chinese hanzi. 

“Come, come!” Anatoly commands, and Oliver shakes himself into motion, scanning the room for threats even as he belatedly pulls off his glove and stuffs them in his coat pockets. There are several groups of men sitting around, glass tumblers in their hands, and three exceedingly thin, starkly beautiful women making the rounds with tall bottles of vodka to freshen drinks. It’s… Oliver doesn’t know what it is, other than the last thing he expected.

As they enter, the attention of everyone in the room shifts to them, and Oliver yanks the oversized hat from his head. Despite Anatoly’s loose, familiar manner with him, Oliver recognizes the hardness settle over his friend, the mantle of leadership of this brutal organization. Anatoly shrugs easily out of his coat, handing it off to a hulking man with visible gun bulge under his slightly ragged suit jacket, and Oliver starts to unbutton his coat.

Anatoly says something in Russian, his head tilting to Oliver, who stands, silent, beside him, crumpling the stupid hat in his grip. He resists the urge to fidget under the cool, appraising looks from the men -- _mobsters_ \-- watching him. There’s a brief discussion that Oliver can’t follow, and then Anatoly moves to the large chair beside the fire, indicating Oliver should join him. Oliver sits, perching the hat on his knee and running a hand through his unruly hair. He leans forward slightly, wrestling his way out of his coat and then settling back.

Anatoly is watching him with some measure of amusement and says something in Russian that Oliver thinks is a question. But he doesn’t know, so he just shrugs. The other man laughs and settles back, legs splayed.

Instantly, two of the women approach with crystal shot glasses. A gorgeous but dead-eyed blonde pours two shots, offering the serving tray to Anatoly first, then Oliver. 

Oliver would prefer to keep his wits about him, but he knows this is a ritual, not an offer of refreshments. So he lifts the glass in response to Anatoly’s familiar “Prochnost,” then downs it, swallowing against the burn in his throat. He places the shot glass upside down on the blonde’s tray and settles back in his chair, waiting for a cue.

“Oliver, my favorite American,” Anatoly says, his voice low enough that they’re _probably_ not being overheard. Also, Oliver hasn’t heard any English being spoken in the room, which he supposes doesn’t mean much. “You are my honored guest here.”

Oliver can feel the change coming, but he’s not familiar enough with Anatoly’s world to know what form it will take. Ignoring the knot of tension in his rib cage, he simply nods. “Thank you. I appreciate your hospitality.” His tone is earnest, because he really, _really_ does appreciate what Anatoly’s done for him these past couple weeks. After the island, Ivo’s freighter, Waller’s tight leash in Hong Kong, after escaping Hong Kong on a cargo ship, Anatoly’s generous help in the form of food and shelter has been the kind of break that Oliver needs.

He’s still drowning in his guilt and his regrets and his anger, all of which are starting to manifest in the form of nightmares now that he’s had more than a couple days in a row _not_ in mortal danger. But he feels less like cornered prey than he did by the end of his time in Hong Kong, and he owes that to Anatoly.

Anatoly, who is watching him closely, an inscrutable expression on his face. “I am left to wonder, Oliver, why you are here.” 

Anatoly’s gaze is sharp, missing nothing, and Oliver tries his hardest to school his features before he answers. “What do you mean?”

“The boy I met on the tanker,” Anatoly says. “He wanted his home. He wanted America and apple pie and blonde girls, no?”

The notion pains him, but it’s true -- he had been obsessed with those things, pining over them almost every spare moment since the Gambit sank. To some extent, he still is. But if the last two weeks of nightmares -- of _remembering_ all of the awful, unforgivable shit he’s done -- has taught him anything, it’s that he doesn’t deserve home. Oliver doesn’t deserve the comfort and love of his family or the ease of their money, and he can’t let himself get caught up in longing for those things. 

He’s not Ollie Queen anymore, and he never can be again. So he says, simply, “I’m not that boy anymore.”

“I can see that,” Anatoly answers. “You are a man now,” he says, then rattles off a long string of Russian that Oliver does not follow. At all. Anatoly gives him a mildly disappointed look and switches back English, “But these days you are a _free_ man, no? So why are you here instead of in your mother’s home?”

Oliver probably owes Anatoly a truthful answer, but he finds he can’t voice his reasons. He can’t bring himself to explain what he’s done -- not because Anatoly won’t understand, but because he _will_. Oliver feels guilty enough -- _is_ guilty enough -- over what he’s become that he never wants to see that knowledge reflected on someone else’s face. 

He doesn’t want Anatoly to recognize him as a fellow ruthless killer.

It’s not fair -- Anatoly has been nothing but kind to Oliver since he arrived on the man’s doorstep. And it’s not like Oliver understands much about the Bratva. But he knows enough about the world to understand Anatoly could not be the leader of the Russian mob without very dirty hands.

“I can’t go back,” Oliver answers finally. “I don’t belong there anymore.”

Anatoly watches him carefully, then waves the dead-eyed blonde back over. He accepts a second shot and nods to Oliver, who reluctantly joins him. Though he’s not feeling at all cold anymore, which maybe explains why the Russians he’s been around the last couple weeks drink so much vodka.

Once they’ve downed the shots, Anatoly leans forward, his elbows on his knees and his voice quiet and serious. “I told you I owe you my life. That is true, Oliver Queen. And because of that, I will offer you two choices.”

Whatever peace he’d started feeling after Anatoly accepted his very vague explanation dissipates. For someone who grew up with so much money that there were never any real consequences to his actions, Oliver has learned the hard way that out here in the real world, _nothing_ is ever without consequences. He frowns. “I don’t understand.”

Anatoly waves a dismissive hand. “You cannot stay indefinitely,” he answers. “This is Bratva, not a motel. There will be questions if you lay about, and I cannot have questions about Americans in our house.”

Oliver nods. “I understand, Anatoly. I can--”

“No, you don’t,” he interrupts, his voice hard and commanding. “You have two choices. You can take money, a gift from me, and you can go somewhere. Somewhere _not_ in Moscow. Somewhere where Bratva will not stumble back over you. Or you can earn your keep.”

Oliver feels the vodka churning in his gut. _Earn your keep_. He knows what that means. It means doing what Waller made him do. It means being a hired gun, but for the Russian mob this time.

He wonders, very briefly, what would’ve happened if he’d come to Anatoly before Waller turned him into a torturer and an assassin. What would’ve happened if Oliver _couldn’t_ earn his keep?

But considering what he’s done, he has no right to expect better.

“Oliver.”

He snaps his head up, meeting Anatoly’s understanding gaze. “Yeah?”

“I do not wish this life for the boy I met on the freighter.”

Oliver frowns, trying to decipher that. “Then what--?”

“You are no longer that boy, yes?” Anatoly interrupts. “You have new skills, I think. A new perspective. If you wish to go, Oliver Queen, I will bring you to the docks myself. But if you wish to stay, I think you could be very valuable to our organization.”

Oliver thinks about setting out on his own, about finding a cabin somewhere in the remote woodlands, about living off the land. About hunting game. About keeping his darkness contained. 

It’s surprisingly unappealing, but he doesn’t dismiss it outright.

He also thinks about Akio, about the harm he’s brought to civilians just by virtue of being in their lives. Tragedy befalls the people around him. He won’t be the cause of harm anymore, not to innocents. 

But when Oliver looks around the room, he recognizes men like himself. Men with dark pasts. Men with blood on their hands. Men who visit destruction onto others. 

There are no innocents here.

And maybe that’s the answer. Or at least answer enough for today. So he meets Anatoly’s gaze and asks, “What would I have to do?”

After a long, weighty moment, Anatoly smiles.

& & &

Oliver's first assignment with the Solntsevskaya Bratva is surveillance. 

He still doesn’t know much about the Bratva -- how it really functions, how people are initiated or promoted, what exactly they _do_. But the last time he’d seen Anatoly, he’d explained that Oliver had been named a _Vor_ , some kind of entry-level rank within the organization. As Anatoly explained, Oliver was initiated by virtue of his service on the Amazo, but any additional rank or prestige would have to be earned. And Oliver starts at the bottom, just like any new recruit.

Which means surveillance. 

Oliver’s run surveillance before, of course. He and Maseo had tracked targets, setting up hits. It’s nothing new, but here, in Moscow, everything is different.

Here, Oliver is spending days on end holed up in an unheated tenement with a guy named Gory, staring out a window and trying not to shiver too violently. They’re keeping watch over what, as far as Oliver can tell, is an abandoned apartment building. 

It would be crushingly dull regardless, but Gory, a tall, salt-and-pepper-haired man with a slight paunch around the middle, does not speak a word of English. Or Mandarin. 

There’s no TV, no radio, not anything in this crumbling hellhole to divert their attention. Thankfully, Oliver’s first lesson on that godforsaken island was patience. He’s learned to pass the time with observing his surroundings, memorizing every last detail in case it can be turned to a tactical advantage. Oliver has already counted the number of windows in the other building (sixteen on the side facing them), the number of buildings on the street (twenty-six), the number of people who go in and out of that building every day (zero). He’s so bored that he might actually start counting the bricks, even though there’s no conceivable strategic upside to the knowledge.

Instead, he tries to block out the world, tries to employ the meditation techniques Tatsu taught him. Though it’s difficult, because Gory is a loud breather. And a chain smoker, which Oliver is pretty convinced is the _cause_ of his loud breathing.

Still, Oliver fixes his gaze on the brick facade of their target building and lets his eyes go unfocused. He breathes in, breathes out, steadying his frame, stilling his mind, until he can’t feel the cold that’s long since seeped into his bones. He sees Shado, misses her courage, lets himself breathe into that guilt, that stain of responsibility that he’ll never get out of his soul. 

Gory makes a strange grunting sound, and it’s enough to jar Oliver back to the shitty present. But when he focuses below, he sees someone approaching their target building.

Oliver straightens, shifting to the side, using the window frame as cover on the off chance the man below glances up to their position. Behind him, Gory is speaking excited Russian in his gruff voice, and Oliver shushes him, lifting a hand for silence.

On the snowy sidewalk below, a man in a black calf-length wool overcoat and a grey stocking cap approaches the building. He’s walking perfectly normally, his gait unhurried, his body language -- though mostly obscured by layers and layers of clothing -- betraying no tension. He reaches the door to the target building and gives a single glance around him, before wrenching the door open and disappearing inside.

Oliver exhales. “Now what?” he murmurs. For his own benefit, since Gory just furrows his brow and says something in Russian.

Oliver turns back to the window, peering out at the building. He hadn’t recognized the man, but he’s not sure that means anything. There’s too much distance between them, and the winter weather in Moscow leaves most people indistinguishable from each other -- everyone is all trundled up in layers of wool.

The brief spike of excitement fades as time continues to grind by. The unidentified man is in the building for more than an hour before another figure on the street approaches. Oliver stiffens and says, “Gory.”

They frame the window, peering out as a smaller person approaches, swathed in black wool and a furry brown hat. Oliver narrows his eyes, studying the gait, the size, and realizes it’s a woman. Then she glances around nervously and he sees a pop of bright red lipstick framed by pale skin and that oversized hat. She hesitates at the door to the target building, before taking a deep breath and heading inside.

Oliver glances at Gory, but he’s already turned away, pulling his cellphone out and bringing it to his ear. Oliver tunes out the other man’s brusque Russian, staring instead at the building, wondering what’s going on inside. There’s an easy assumption, but Oliver can’t imagine what would make two people pick an abandoned, unheated tenement for an illicit hookup in the middle of winter.

He considers options. Clearly, breaching the building isn’t an option. Even if he had the gear to zipline across onto the roof, there’s no one else in the building. He’s pretty good at sneaking around -- because he’s had to learn to be -- but he’s not silent. Not silent enough for an empty building, anyway.

Then Gory is standing in front of him, gesturing out the window and speaking rapidly.

“What?” Oliver asks. Then he grimaces. Glancing outside at the sidewalk, he thinks maybe they’ve got the same idea. “We go out there?” he asks, gesturing between them, then pointing out the window. “We split up--” He mimes people walking away from each other with his fingers-- “and see them up close when they come out?”

“Oliver,” Gory says, and it sounds like _Aw-leave-ur_ , “Go.”

Surprised at even that much English, Oliver nods enthusiastically. “Yes, Gory and Oliver go,” he agrees, tilting his head towards the street. And then he realizes they’re probably not going to understand each other any better than this moment. They can’t come up with a plan, or decide whether to follow the two people in the building, or come up with a way to switch out tailing anyone to avoid being made.

Nope, Oliver is basically on his own with this, so he gives Gory a quick nod. “Oliver’s going,” he says, and turns toward the door.

& & &

Oliver is shaking with cold by the time he makes it back to the Bratva-controlled building that houses his apartment. Spending hours on end with Gory in that unheated tenement is pretty bad. But conducting surveillance outside in the full force of the elements is about five times worse; the tenement isn’t really heated, but at least the walls had protected Oliver from having to withstand the brutal, bone-chilling winds the way he had for the last three hours. 

He’s only been in Moscow three weeks, but he’s already learned that this kind of cold clings to you long after you’ve made it indoors. Truth be told, the lobby of his building can’t be more than 55 degrees; he doesn’t so much as unbutton his coat while he walks up the two flights of stairs to his floor. 

Oliver wants nothing so badly as a hot shower in his shitty efficiency, but the water never gets much past lukewarm. And it’s not like he can complain to building management -- the studio apartment with the noisy radiator and the fire-hazard cooktop is a Bratva perk. Or maybe more of a requirement -- his rent is taken from his earnings before he’s paid, leaving very little money for anything else. From what Oliver can tell, most of the other men spend their little disposable income eating and drinking in the restaurant on the ground floor.

It’s a nice little closed system the Bratva have got going. Oliver’s pretty sure this is the kind of thing his great grandfather got up to when he made the first Queen family million building railroad tracks in the American west. Living the other side of the equation is pretty eye opening.

But at least it’s a room with a lock and a reasonably clean mattress and the opportunity for Oliver to be silent and alone, instead of surrounded by people speaking a language he can’t understand.

His fingers are still tingling with returning feeling as he reaches his door and finds a note taped to it. He glares at the Cyrillic -- because he’s barely picked up three Russian words in speech, there’s no _way_ he can tackle reading it in a separate alphabet. Hell, he’s pretty fluent in Mandarin at this point, but can’t recognize a single hanzi. 

Even with no idea what the note actually says, Oliver knows there’s only one person who would be trying to contact him.

Borya Grishin.

With a resigned sigh, Oliver turns away from the door, putting his semi-warm shower thoughts on hold and trudging back to the stairwell. By the time he climbs the three flights of stairs between his floor and Borya’s, his body temperature has stabilized and he’s starting to sweat into the layers of fabric. 

Tugging the oversized hat off of his head, Oliver moves directly to Borya’s penthouse door, holding the note aloft for the guard’s benefit.

Oliver has time to peel his gloves off, shrug out of his coat and fold it over his arm before the guard comes back to wave him in with a brusque Russian command.

That constant lost feeling, that low-level panic that comes from not understanding conversations around him? Oliver is doing is best to ignore it, but it’s not working. 

He remembers feeling lost like this in Hong Kong -- feeling isolated and nervous. But he’d managed to pick up Mandarin in a couple months of immersion, plus Maseo and Tatsu were under Waller’s thumb, just like Oliver. Despite their adversarial beginnings, the common foe had led to a mutual trust.

Oliver’s situation here feels much more precarious

Here, the only person he knows, the only person who cares whether he lives or dies, is the mob boss. And lowly _Vor_ don’t spend much time with the _Pakhan_ , so Oliver is on his own, and unable to communicate with the vast majority of Russians he encounters. 

In some ways, he’s as scared and isolated as those first few days on the island, only now he has survival skills to fall back on. Specifically, he’s learned how to recognize a threat. 

And Borya Grishin is most definitely a threat.

“Come!” Borya orders as Oliver enters the sitting room. It’s hard to believe this apartment is in the same building as Oliver’s, considering the blemish-free walls, perfectly stained floors, and functioning heat augmented by a roaring fireplace. Borya’s penthouse is lavishly decorated, befitting someone with his rank.

As far as Oliver has been able to piece together, the Bratva operate in cells, all rolling up to a single boss. And Oliver’s been assigned to Borya’s cell. They haven’t interacted much, but he knows already that Borya lacks Anatoly’s underlying joviality. That, plus the fact the Borya’s first words to Oliver were “I don’t trust Americans” means that he’s very much on high alert as he watches Borya.

“Hello,” Oliver says, keeping his tone level and respectful. He remains standing, as Borya hasn’t offered him a seat. 

“Oliver,” Borya says, his cold blue eyes intent. He’s one of three people Oliver’s met so far who speaks English, but his command on the language is not great. He has some trouble conjugating verbs, and understanding probably two-thirds of the things Oliver has said to him during their short acquaintance “Reporting,” Borya orders.

Oliver takes a moment to remind himself to avoid idioms and speak clearly. “At 11:20, a man entered the building. Just over an hour later, a woman entered.”

“Identities?” Borya demands, templing his fingers below his chin.

Oliver hesitates, because he wasn’t expecting this. “I-- I don’t know. I didn’t recognize either.” He bites down on a flare of frustration. He’s been in Russia three weeks and barely interacted with anyone other than Anatoly, Borya, and a couple other low-level Bratva members -- how the hell would he recognize a surveillance target?

Borya grunts and waves a hand. “Continuing.”

Jaw clenching, Oliver breathes in slowly through his nose, making sure there’s no sign of his temper when he speaks. “They were inside for about fifteen minutes before the man left. Gory followed him, and I waited for the woman and tailed her. She went to the Imperia Tower in the Moskva-City.” 

“And the man?”

“Gory tailed him,” Oliver repeats, hating that there’s a gnawing unease beneath his ribs at this line of questioning. “So I don’t know.”

Borya takes a sip from the crystal tumbler in his hand. “You do not know where target went,” he says finally, disapproval clear in his tone.

Oliver blinks. “The-- We were watching the building, not--”

“For _this man_ ,” Borya interrupts angrily.

Oliver wants to argue. He wants to explain that _he doesn’t speak Russian_ , so they need to tell him important things _in English_. Like that the man was the target, not the building. But reminding Borya of his nationality will do Oliver no favors. So he holds his tongue, answering instead with a simple nod of acknowledgement.

“Next time,” Borya says, “keep your focus. We do not care about the _blyat_ that Zhidkov wants to fuck.”

Oliver bristles. Background information on the target -- _Zhidkov_ , apparently -- would’ve been very helpful. He wonders how much Gory knew -- if all of this information is why Gory was so quick to tail Zhidkov and leave the woman for Oliver. If Gory sent Oliver after a meaningless target to further undermine his precarious position within the Bratva.

“Got it,” Oliver answers.

“Dismissing,” Borya says with a flick of his fingers toward the door. “Go back tomorrow. Do better.”

Frustration sings in Oliver’s veins, but he’s not sure what he’s supposed to say. So he just nods and turns to leave. 

He takes the stairs down to his floor two at a time, moving quickly along the hallway to his apartment. Once inside, he hangs his coat on the wooden peg by the door and tosses his hat on a small table beside his keys. It’s the first time he’s had keys since the Gambit, but he knows the implied independence is an illusion.

The Bratva owns this building and everyone in it. Including Oliver. 

Oliver wrenches on the hot water tap, then strips, leaving the bathroom tile littered with woolen clothing. He steps into the shower and turns his face up into the warm spray. His feet are cold against the chilly porcelain, but his chest slowly heats up.

It’s too late to second-guess his choice to accept Anatoly’s offer, but he thinks sometimes that he would’ve been better off living somewhere in rural Croatia. Waller had controlled him with threats against innocents; this life -- Oliver didn’t fully understand what he was stepping into, but he’d made the choice himself. He’d chosen the Bratva, and he has nobody to blame but himself for where it’s taking him. 

Oliver stays in the shower until the water begins to cool. It did its job -- he’s warmer than he’s been all day. But he’ll never be able to wash himself clean.

& & &

Glossary:

 _blyat_ (блядь) - whore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really think someday I will come back to this and write the rest of Oliver's fall into the Bratva. Not sure how much of an appetite there is for pre-Felicity, Oliver-only stories, but the muse wants what it wants. ;)


	72. Fic Amnesty: olicity, dog-related meet-cute AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, but [YOU try to look at this gifset](http://machawicket.tumblr.com/post/115141881672/mersayseh-machawicket-carogables) and not picture something dog-related! ;)

 

  
  


Roxy was more than a handful.

The stocky brown-and-white pit bull wanted nothing more than to love on any and every person or dog in her vicinity. _Every_  single living creature. Plus the occasional stuffed animal.

Even after six months living with Felicity, who was an _actual dog trainer_ , Roxy still attempted to give tackle-hugs to most of the dogs and owners at the dog park. And since Roxy was a pit bull, people tended to panic at the sight of her galloping in their direction.

So even though the dog park was filled with dogs gallivanting off leash, Felicity kept Roxy tethered. Of course, Felicity still wanted to keep Roxy looking _cute_ , so the leash was fuchsia with thin, diagonal, bright orange stripes. The fact that Felicity’s favorite springtime jacket was a lightweight trench-style coat in the brightest of bright pinks that coordinated perfectly was purely coincidence.

“C’mon, baby girl,” Felicity coaxed, keeping the leash taut as a particularly speedy German Shepherd zoomed past. Roxy watched the other dog with hope in her eyes, her thin tail wagging enthusiastically. But she didn’t pull or lunge, and Felicity grinned. “Good job today, but it’s time to go.”

Roxy grinned that dopey pit bull grin up at her, and walked calmly through the gates separating the once-grass-covered-but-now-worn-down-to-dirt-by-a-million-paws dog park section from the lush green grass of the people-only portion of Fitzpatrick park.

Felicity and Roxy were halfway to the gravel parking area when a shout caught her attention. She glanced to the right even as she felt Roxy pull in that same direction.

A black and white blur of fur was barreling towards them, tongue lolling, leash trailing behind like a green ribbon. Felicity noted that someone was running after the dog, but kept her attention fixed on the border collie. Keeping Roxy’s leash firmly in hand, Felicity pulled treats from the pouch in her jacket pocket. “Roxy,” she ordered, “Stay.”

Roxy sat immediately, but she kept her attention on the other dog and was wagging her tail so hard her butt wiggled against the grass. Felicity took two steps away from Roxy, wanting to keep the other dog away until she had a better sense of temperament and intentions.

The person running after the dog -- Felicity judged from her peripheral vision that it was probably a man or a really tall, broad-shouldered woman -- was getting closer, and Felicity waved him off. “Wait,” she ordered, her voice loud.

But she kept her focus on the border collie. Holding the treats up in her free hand, she said, “Treats.”

The strange dog slowed as it grew close, its attention moving from Roxy, who was practically vibrating with excitement, to Felicity, who’d said the magic words. Felicity nodded, smiling. “Good doggy. Treat.” She tossed one pellet towards the border collie, who enthusiastically gulped it down, then looked back to Felicity for more.

But the strange dog was still poised to run. And border collies were _fast_. And smart.

If this little guy wanted to evade capture, he probably would be able to. Easily.

“Treat,” Felicity repeated, tossing another one a little closer to her.

As the border collie moved toward the treat, Felicity realized the man in pursuit was trying to sneak up behind the dog. “Hey, person,” she called out, keeping her tone calm for the sake of Roxy and the border collie, “you need to stay back.”

“Excuse me?” a voice answered. Definitely a guy. Sounded kind of offended. If she could spare the attention, she’d give him an unimpressed look. He lets his border collie overpower him and run off, and he’s going to give _her_  attitude?

“If you want me to catch your dog, you need to keep back there for a minute,” Felicity answered. “Does he know commands?”

Felicity held up another treat, and the mismatched brown-and-blue eyes of the stranger’s dog followed her every move.

“Sort of,” the guy answered finally.

With an annoyed huff -- why couldn’t people just train their dogs? -- she held the treat aloft and commanded, “Sit.”

The border collie stared back at her. Emphatically _not_  sitting. Stubborn and smart. Great.

“Treat?” she repeated, stepping a little closer. She held the treat out of reach, but over his head. “Sit,” she ordered.

This time, the dog sat, and Felicity immediately offered the treat, still in her hand. “Good boy.”

The dog grabbed it from her fingers fairly politely, then looked back up at her.

“Treat?” she said once more, then tossed it just past the dog’s left shoulder. When he turned, Felicity stepped forward and onto the leash. She gave a fist pump with her free hand, then glanced over at the owner, who was still standing about twenty feet away.

And -- wow -- he was incredibly handsome and _also_  looked pretty grumpy. “What’s his name?” she asked, for lack of anything more interesting to say in the face of all of...  _that_.

He arched an eyebrow. “Am I allowed to approach?” he asked, sounding amused but also maybe still a little bit miffed.

Felicity smirked. “Free time,” she said. Roxy responded to the release, too, moving immediately to meet the border collie, who’d taken to his newfound entrapment pretty well.

The stranger moved towards her with long, purposeful strides, and leaned down to grab his dog’s leash. Felicity made sure he had a good grip before she stepped off the leash. He held the green strip of leather aloft and said, “Thanks.”

Felicity grinned. “No problem.”

“This little monster,” he said, reaching down to pet the border collie, who stood attentively at his knee. “is Monty.”

“Aww, he’s not a monster,” Felicity argued, leaning down to offer her hand to Monty to sniff.

“Tell that to the poor, traumatized squirrels he likes to chase,” he answered dryly.

Monty accepted Felicity’s petting easily, more interested in Roxy, who was enthusiastically offering play bows and attempting to entice Monty into playing. “Does he try to herd you around?” Felicity asked.

He brightened. “Is that what he’s doing?”

“He’s a border collie,” Felicity answered, exasperated. “They’re working dogs.”

“Oh. Well, thanks for grabbing him for me. I’m Oliver.”

“Oh!” Felicity straightened, flushing a bit. Because not only was she lecturing him about breed traits, she hadn’t even thought to introduce herself. Which was just her normal awkwardness, and not at all to do with how handsome he was. “Right, sorry. Felicity.” She shook the hand he offered quickly. “And this is Roxy.”

Oliver gave Roxy a slightly skeptical look. “Hi, Roxy.”

Just saying her name was enough of an invitation -- Roxy went up on her back legs and placed her paws on his stomach, leaning her face in close to snuffle at his clothing. The sheer sweetness seemed to win Oliver over, and he scratched her ears.

“Roxy, down,” Felicity commanded, and she obeyed, but gave Felicity a very sad, very judgmental look. “Sorry,” she said to Oliver, “she gets excited.”

He nodded slowly, his attention focused on Felicity now. “She’s very obedient.”

Felicity gave him a look. “Training,” she said. “You should consider it for Monty.”

“Oh, he’s not actually my dog,” Oliver answered.

Felicity glanced down at Roxy. “Right. I just-- Border collies are really smart and they can get bored and act out. They can really benefit from training.”

“And,” Oliver said, watching her closely, “are you a dog trainer?”

“Yes, actually. I’d be happy to help,” Felicity offered. Monty really was a pretty cute dog, and he was staying calm, even with Roxy bouncing around. “I mean-- I know he’s not _your_ dog, but he’s sweet and he’s clearly smart.”

“Well, I meant he isn’t _just_  my dog,” Oliver backpedaled, and she was pretty sure he was lying about something. Which was a weird thing to think about some guy she’d just randomly met. “He’s mine and Tommy’s.”

Oh. well. Tommy. Okay, then. Hot Oliver was definitely not interested in _her_ , though she supposed he might still be interested in hiring her to train his dog. “You and Tommy should look into some obedience classes.”

Oliver nodded, an unfairly attractive little grin on his face. “Could I get your number? For-- Because of the dogs. The dog training,” he corrected swiftly.

Felicity nodded. “Sure, no problem.” She fished a card out of her bag and handed it over. “I teach some classes at the doggie daycare on Fifteenth.”

Oliver tucked her card into his back pocket. “Do you do--” He stopped and frowned a little, then gave a little self-conscious shrug. “This sounds weird but do you offer private training sessions?”

Felicity blinked. “Absolutely,” she decided. “If it’s easier for you and your--”

“Roommate,” Oliver interrupted with a grin.

“Sure, sure,” Felicity said. “If that’s easier, I can totally come for you. I mean _to_ you -- to your place.” She could feel her cheeks flushing. “Yours and Tommy’s, I mean.” God, why was she babbling to this poor, uninterested, happily paired-off gay man?

And then he was beaming at her, seemingly amused by her inability to speak without accidentally sexually harassing people. “That sounds great, Felicity.”

She bobbed her head once, taking a step back. “Okay! Well. It was nice meeting you and Monty.”

Oliver grinned at her some more, which was just really unfair. “Likewise,” he said, taking two steps towards her and offering her hand.

“Oh.” Felicity transferred Roxy’s leash to her left and shook Oliver’s hand, telling herself to ignore everything about the way his skin felt against hers.

Then Oliver leaned just the tiniest bit closer, almost _looming_ over her a bit, and added, “I’ll call you.”

Felicity blinked, and he and Monty moved away, striding towards the dog park. “Okay,” she answered belatedly. Oliver glanced back at her and -- did he just _wink_  at her?

She reached down for Roxy, grounding herself with the familiar feel of her fur. “Let’s go, baby girl.”

-30-


	73. Fic Amnesty: 2x23 - Diggle has a conversation with Oliver on that tiny rust bucket of a plane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note: I wrote this very early into my swandive into the Arrow fandom, and ultimately couldn't get anywhere else with this. 2x23 is well-worn, much-beloved territory, and this isn't saying much that's particularly new, but I like some of the interaction, so... ;)

 

Once they were aloft with Lian Yu receding into the distance and the mainland in sight, Felicity popped the melatonin Diggle handed her and curled in the bench seat along the side of fuselage. She drifted off with one hand on the parachute, and Diggle doubted she’d sleep very soundly, given her understandable fear of flying in a rust bucket like this. Still, her exhaustion would keep her out for a little while at least.

Diggle considered following her lead, but figured since they were all running on fumes, leaving only one person awake to fly the plane was a pretty terrible idea. Redundancy -- the key to U.S. military superiority.

So Diggle ran his hands over his face a couple times to force himself to stay alert, then climbed forward and contorted himself into the copilot’s seat. 

Oliver glanced over with a tired smile. “You’re my wingman?” he half-shouted over the engine noise.

“Copilot,” Diggle corrected dryly, gesturing towards a mountain range off to their right. “Don’t fly into those.”

“I’ll do my best.” Oliver chuckled, a welcome sight after the unrelenting fear and darkness of the past few weeks.

Conversation was difficult in the old plane, considering it didn’t include niceties like sound insulation. The biplane was a well-worn, no-frills affair, worlds different from the Queen jet with its mahogany and impeccable insulation. 

Diggle wasn’t much of a pilot, but he knew enough to grab the extra head set and pull it on, indicating Oliver should do the same. The headset dulled a lot of the engine noise, even as it pressed oddly against Diggle’s ears. He adjusted the microphone as Oliver pulled on the other pair with a look of consternation.

Diggle wasn’t about to explain that he didn’t want Felicity to overhear their conversation. Oliver didn’t react well to warnings -- he’d probably hurl the headset out the window instead of listen.

“How’s your energy level?” Dig began tactically. 

Oliver answered quickly, his voice a little staticky through the headsets and the plane’s old systems. “Pretty good. I can get us to Fuzhou .”

"You realize the jet’s probably not waiting for us anymore,” Dig commented. 

Oliver’s expression darkened. They’d taken advantage of the confusion over Isabel Rochev’s whereabouts as well as Oliver’s longstanding relationship with the corporate jet’s crew to persuade them to fly to Beijing  and wait. ARGUS had agreed to let Oliver, Felicity, and Diggle accompany Slade as far as Fuzhou , and then they’d followed -- much more slowly -- to Lian Yu in the shitty rental biplane so they could all see to their own satisfaction that Slade was locked up. But they’d all known that the jet for their return flight could -- and probably _would_ \-- be recalled before they made it back to Fuzhou .

“Felicity can get us on a flight.”

Diggle grinned. “Oliver Queen, flying commercial?” He wanted to laugh, but had the sudden, terrible image of Oliver, Felicity, and himself stuffed into three coach seats for 12 hours. Felicity would kill them both. “And can she really do that? I think the NSA and CIA pay pretty close attention to any strangeness involving airline passenger manifests.”

“Felicity’s better,” Oliver answers immediately. “They wouldn’t know anything was strange.”

Diggle raised his eyebrows. “Well, that’s...” He was going to say mildly terrifying, but went with “something” instead.

Oliver nodded, watching him closely for a long moment. “What’s on your mind, Dig?”

A lot of things. Impending fatherhood, most of all. It was… he didn’t have the words to describe it, realy. Definitely more than just _mildly_  terrifying, but also maybe... exhilarating? And something he wasn’t quite ready to talk to Oliver about, especially when he had a very legit bone to pick.  “Did you straighten things out with Felicity?” he asked eventually.

Oliver half-turned in his seat to look back at her. She was still dozing, and couldn’t possibly hear them over the rattle and hum of the engines. Oliver looked at Diggle with an expression Diggle couldn’t quite name. “Everything’s fine.”

Shit. So Oliver _hadn’t_  taken the engraved goddamned opportunity to fix things. Already knowing the answer, Diggle grit his teeth and asked, “Did you apologize?”

Oliver bristled. “Excuse me?”

Diggle recognized that tone -- it was Oliver’s I’m-being-a-prick-because-Felicity-is-interested-in-someone tone. Also, his someone-is-pushing-me-on-my-feelings-for-Felicity tone.

Diggle had had just about enough of that tone to last his goddamned lifetime.  “Oliver--”

“What, exactly, did you imagine I should be apologizing for?” That haughty anger in his voice was a defense mechanism, but recognizing it as such didn’t make it any less irritating.

Swallowing his initial, profanity-laden response, Dig blew out a breath of frustration and answered, “You said we could protect her.”

“We did.”

Diggle actually laughed at that. “Are you kidding me? Felicity saved our asses, and she only did that after you put a target on her. Because that’s exactly what you did.”

Oliver turned as much as possible in the cramped cockpit. “Everyone in my _life_  was targeted by Slade.”

“That’s bullshit,” Diggle answered. “Felicity told me about the mansion, about what you said.”

Oliver at least had the decency to flush. “Dig,” he said, but he didn’t continue.

Diggle groaned his frustration. “You know how she thinks of you,” he began. “You used her feelings--”

“I used _my_   feelings,” Oliver interrupted loudly. Vehemently. 

Diggle stared at him, stunned, even as Oliver cursed in Mandarin and checked to make sure Felicity was still asleep. “Dig, I can’t talk about this.”

Diggle understood -- he wasn’t one to endlessly analyze and discuss how he _felt_ about everything. The very idea set his teeth on edge. But this wasn’t just girl talk -- Oliver and Felicity were two of the three major pieces of Team Arrow, and any wedge between them threatened more than just the two of them. “Oliver... He didn't know exactly how to approach this. "You're saying...?"

Oliver’s hands were wrapped around the stick, knuckles white as he stared tensely out the windscreen. “I still can’t believe I walked out of the mansion." It sounded like a confession, and Diggle figured he should keep quiet and let the man talk.

“The look on her face--” Oliver stopped, swallowed hard. “I didn’t intend to-- I thought I could play to the cameras, to Slade, but I didn’t mean to--” He stopped again, slammed a palm against the stick hard enough to cause the plane to dip. Cursing, Oliver corrected their trajectory and checked on Felicity again, his gaze lingering this time.

Diggle shook his head, just a bit, because he realized that Oliver had finally recognized exactly what he felt for Felicity. Dig was honestly a little shocked -- Oliver was a good man, a smart man, but he’d lived through hell for five long years and had learned to survive by shoving his emotions away, locking them into a forgotten part of his brain. Half his trouble after re-emerging into the world was trying to figure out what all of those damn _feelings_  meant.

And Oliver of the first few months back was _terrible_  at it. Just awful. Even six months ago, Diggle would’ve tried to persuade Oliver to stay away from Felicity. But if Oliver had really figured some of his shit out, maybe he’d simply told Felicity the truth.

In the worst possible way and under circumstances guaranteed to make her doubt him, but still. Diggle would much rather that whole clusterfuck had been a poorly timed realization than a ruthless exploitation.

“You love her.” He didn’t mean to say it. Definitely didn’t mean for it to sound like an accusation.

“Dig,” Oliver warned.

“You intended to fool Slade by fooling her, but you accidentally told the truth.”

“Dig.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s not a denial.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Oliver grit out.

Diggle actually threw his hands up in exasperation. The ways this man found to try his patience. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Oliver shushed him and checked on Felicity once more. “Dig. Enough.”

“Oh, hell, no,” Diggle answered. “You don’t get to jerk her around like--”

“Jerk her around?” Oliver echoed, well and truly pissed now. “I’m trying to keep her safe, like I said we would. Like I said _I_  would.”

“So your concern is purely for her body, but you don’t care about her heart?”

“Diggle--”

“I’m serious, Oliver. If you’d warned her, or if she’d volunteered, or if you’d both really _had_ been playing your roles, I’d be the first one telling you to stay the hell away from her.” Diggle shrugged. “Hell, I probably still should.”

“You should,” Oliver agreed darkly. “But you don’t need to.”

So that was it, Diggle surmised. Oliver finally figured out he was in love with Felicity, and had decided to do absolutely nothing about it. Great. 

Oliver sighed, some of the tension leaving him. “John,” he said, glancing at Dig. “Leave it be.”

Diggle watched the way his friend’s jaw clenched stubbornly and knew he wasn’t ready. The man had come a long way since his return from the island, but he still had quite a ways to go before he would be ready for Felicity. 

“Yeah,” he agreed, grudgingly. “Okay, but Oliver?” He waited until Oliver glanced over at him, then said, “The next time you think about using that woman’s feelings for you in a op, you talk to me first, and you damn well talk to _her_  before you do it.”

Oliver glared for a moment, then turned back to the view outside the windscreen. Diggle supposed that was all the acknowledgement he would get, and settled into his seat with a heavy sigh. These two.

-30-

 


	74. Prompt Response: olicity, Felicity + lingerie + Oliver + Unexpected!Dig - nonsense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> otpprompts:
> 
> Imagine Person A of your OTP waiting for Person B to get home, and decide to surprise them by getting into lingerie or maybe even stripping to nothing at all. They wait like that near the door for Person B to walk in, only to realize once they do that Person B’s decided to bring friends for dinner.

 

Felicity has never been one for fancy lingerie. Cute bras, maybe a little bit of the sexy with some lacy boy shorts, sure. But corsets and all of that always seemed like a _lot_  of work.

But being engaged to someone who is essentially _walking sex_ in really well-fitted jeans… well, sometimes, Felicity thinks maybe some effort is warranted. So she spent a little time (and, frankly, an _obscene_ amount of money) at a boutique lingerie store before texting Oliver to meet her at home for dinner. And then she wriggled into a bright purple, barely-there longline bra that does amazing things for her boobs, paired with skimpy, black lace boy shorts that leave at _least_  half of her ass on display. 

And, since Oliver has repeatedly and in great detail explained how he loves her legs bare, she just steps into her heels when she hears his keys in the door and strikes what she hopes is a seductive pose. She’s really not terribly practiced in the arts of _seductive posing,_ but probably the expensive lingerie does most of the work?

“Felicity?” Oliver says before the door’s even open. She’s ten feet away, hip cocked, thumb hooked into the waistband of her panties. “I brought–” 

Everything stops – Oliver freezes half-in, half-out, staring at Felicity. For the tiniest, triumphant-iest moment, Felicity smirks at the gobsmacked look on his face. Goddamn right she looks like walking sex. Or _posed in expensive lingerie_ sex, at least.

Then Felicity sees Diggle’s face over Oliver’s shoulder and chokes out a high-pitched sound of distress.

Diggle’s gaze dips from Felicity’s face momentarily, and then his eyes slam shut and he turns away.

She’s honestly not sure which one of the three of them is more horrified.

“I brought Dig,” Oliver says, his gaze firmly locked on her boobs. He’s got that unfocused, _I must have you now, damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead_  look, and actually takes a step towards her.

Felicity skitters around the door, using it as a shield so Dig couldn’t possibly get _more_ of an eyeful than he just did. “Oliver!” she squeaks, but he just steps farther into the apartment, his gaze fixed on her abdomen now. (Or, yes, okay, maybe her boy shorts. Given the situation, it shouldn’t be hot. _Why is it still hot_?)

“Maybe I should go,” Dig suggests. “Felicity clearly has...” There’s a horrifyingly awkward silence before he adds a rueful “plans.”

Felicity buries her face in her hands, mortified. “It’s not what it looks like!” she calls out. Then she wrinkles her nose. “Okay, yes, it is actually what it looks like, but it’s only supposed to look like sexytimes for Oliver. I mean,” she says, shaking her head to clear out her jumbled thoughts, “only Oliver’s supposed to _see_  what sexytimes for Oliver looks–”

“ _Please_ ,” Dig interrupts, “stop staying _sexytimes for Oliver_ , Felicity. I’m doing my best here, but you are not helping the situation.”

“There’s no situation!” she tries, but Oliver is drifting closer, his eyes back on her bra. Or her boobs. And _why_  are her nipples hard? “Really, Dig, if you just give me maybe like five minutes to put some real clothes on, we can–”

“Goodnight, John,” Oliver interrupts, his big, warm hands landing on the exposed skin of her waist. She shivers and he steps closer, backing her into the wall. “Rain check.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dig answers. “Let’s never speak of this again.”

“Deal!” Felicity squeaks. “Oliver!” she protests, and then his mouth is on her neck, his lips warm and insistent against _that spot_ below her ear and she’s not protesting anymore. “Oliver!”

“Ugh!” Dig says. “At least close the door before you–” 

Oliver’s hand leaves her body briefly, and then the door slams shut, and then he’s lifting her up and pinning her to the wall. “Hey,” he says, one hand firmly cupping her ass. 

“Hey,” she answers, still more than a little flustered from the past few minutes. “So I guess I surprised you.”

“Normally, I don’t like surprises,” he says, pressing soft kisses against her lips in between words. “This,” he says, his fingers inching into her boy shorts. “ _This_ , I like.”

She wants to answer, but then his mouth is on hers and she has more important things to focus on.

-30-


	75. Prompt Response: olicity, Felicity wants a code name and Oliver is a bit of a prat about it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is [entirely Calli's fault](http://machawicket.tumblr.com/post/135744042777/callistawolf-machawicket-callistawolf). Obviously.
> 
> [Wrote most of this a thousand years ago, but wanted it out in the world before Felicity gets an actual canonical code name.]

 

It starts innocently enough.

After a couple nights with Oliver back in the field and Felicity staying in the lair on comms, Thea references “home base” over the comms. _Speedy to Home Base_ ,  _I’ve got the target_. Felicity doesn’t love it -– it’s kind of impersonal and whatever, but –- sure. Fine. 

At least it’s better than what Oliver had (she’d thought _jokingly_ ) suggested the first night they rejoined the team: Sunshine. Felicity had laughed and laughed, and only then realized with dawning horror, “Oh, you’re serious?”

“I’m always serious about your safety, Felicity,” he’d answered, all innocent earnestness.

She’d rewarded him with a kiss, then told him –-  _firmly_  -– that her secret code name was _not_ going to be something as completely un-threatening and non-badass as _Sunshine_. “That’s what you name a six week old Golden Retriever, Oliver.” And then she _may_  have been sidetracked by a discussion about whether to get a pet now that they were getting settled in Starling.

So, yeah, she doesn’t love _Home Base_ , but at least it’s not _Sunshine_.

Besides, Felicity has more important things to worry about at this particular moment – like finding a surveillance camera that’s _not_  directed at, like, a graffiti-covered wall. Who installs these things, anyway? 

But Oliver makes a dismissive grumbling sort of noise (and how disturbing is it that Felicity can read him _so_  well that she knows exactly what _that precise grumbling_  means?), and corrects his sister. “It’s _Plumberry._ ”

There’s a long beat of silence, and then Diggle huffs a laugh. “Excuse me?”

Felicity, whose hands are frozen over her keyboard, because she _must_  have misheard him, adds, “ _What_  did you just call me?” Because-– Seriously, _what_? _ **Plumberry**_? That’s... It’s not _dirty_ (probably?), but it kind of _sounds_ dirty? Or at least suggestive –- she can’t help but think it’s some sort of reference to her ass (or, more accurately, Oliver’s keen appreciation for her ass). And she and Oliver already get enough grief from the team for their occasional lapses in discretion –- she definitely doesn’t need any more quasi-sexual _anything_  happening in front of the team. (You get caught with your boyfriend’s head under your skirt _one time_ , and suddenly everyone thinks you’re both sex fiends!)

“Code name,” Oliver grits out. “Now focus.”

Felicity narrows her eyes. “ _Plumberry_  to _Green Arrow_  –- care to explain?”

“You demanded a code name,” he answers quickly. “Going radio silent.”

“Convenient.” Felicity snorts, glaring at her monitor for lack of a more effective target. Because she wants a code name _mostly_  for the security of it all –- but also a little bit because they sound badass. Except for-– “ _Plumberry_ out.”

She hears the distinctive sound of fabric rustling over the tiny mic embedded in someone’s gear, and then Diggle’s muffled, amused, “ _Plumberry_ , man? The hell?”

Oliver doesn’t answer. 

And then things go rather predictably to hell, which Felicity blames almost entirely on the utter lack of surveillance cameras for her to co-opt to the cause. Because that means she doesn’t have eyes on, and, yeah, Thea has the target, but none of them saw the target’s backup coming. 

In the ensuing chaos and maybe just kind of _low level_  panicking, Felicity forgets all about the  _Plumberry_ nonsense.

& & &

Three nights later, Oliver is suited back up and out patrolling with Thea by the time Felicity arrives at the lair. Dig begged off to spend time with Lyla and Sara, and Laurel is working out in the lair, alternating between the speed bag and the huge, heavy bag. 

Felicity gives her a wave and drops into the chair in front of her monitors, tucking the comm in her ear. “I’m here.”

Thea answers quickly, “Hey, Fe–-”

“ _No_ ,” Oliver interrupts his sister. “Code names.” He pauses long enough for Felicity to roll her eyes, then adds, “Evening, Angel Foodcake.”

Felicity’s mouth drops open. 

Thea is already on it: “Are you serious right now?”

“She needs a code name,” Oliver answers, his tone even and betraying no _I’m totally pulling everyone’s leg-_ ness. “That’s a code name.”

“Black Canary, Green Arrow,” Thea rattles off, “and _Angel Foodcake_? What the hell happened to you on that road trip?”

“Speedy,” Oliver warns.

“ _Green Arrow_ ,” Felicity says, in that same warning tone she usually uses with _Oliver_  when he’s being particularly obstinate, “what is this about?”

“Security,” he answers shortly. “We’ll talk about it later.”

“Fine,” she agrees, passive-aggressively refusing to sign off as _Angel Foodcake._ Because _seriously_!?

When Oliver and Thea get back to the lair, Thea links arms with a still-sweaty Laurel and says, “This is going to go one of two directions, and I don’t want to be here for either.” Laurel nods her assent, and the two women depart even as Oliver and Felicity get into it.

It’s an argument without a resolution –- Oliver is laser-focused on her safety and ignoring her _very reasonable_  questions about why his idea of appropriate secret code names for her would be perfectly good names for a child’s stuffed animal _._ She is more than a little offended that everyone else gets cool, badass nicknames and he’s calling her _Angel Foodcake_. Because he’s not one for pet names, really, and she can’t figure out were any of this is coming from.

But he just smirks at her and shrugs, taking her hand in his and tugging her closer. She frowns. “If you think you can just kiss me and make me forget about–”

He kisses her, though, and, yes, fine, she _does_ forget about it. At least long enough for the argument to end as most of them do these days -- with sex and some laughter. Then a slight pause for the drive back to the loft and a very late plateful of scrambled eggs. Then more sex and some grudging apologies.

Oliver never explains _Angel Foodcake_ , and she thinks the matter has been put to rest.

& & &

Any progress she thought she’d made with him is proven a lie two nights later, when he checks in from the field and calls her _Lady Godiva_.

When he gets back to the lair, she crosses her arms and says, “Lady Godiva? If you expect chocolate _or_  nudity from me any time soon, you’d better never call me that again.”

He smirks and agrees. And then the next time he’s out in the field, he calls her  _Rock Candy._

She yells. And demands that he explain where he’s even getting this nonsense from. He takes her hands in his and squeezes, before kissing her. It’s kind of embarrassing how thoroughly he can still charm her out of her anger. (It doesn’t hurt that he applied himself diligently to the task of getting her off repeatedly that night, until she was boneless, blissful heap of a person. Hard to be pissed at him after _that_.)

Until he calls her  _Material Girl_ over the comms. 

That night, he receives a lengthy lecture on equal pay in the workplace, with a very important sidebar on how _she_  is the current breadwinner in their relationship, no matter how he grew up, and _he_  needs to learn to respect that. He very seriously nods, agreeing with all of her points, even as she pokes him repeatedly, her burgundy nail polish highlighted against the green of his jacket. Then he tugs her onto his lap and kisses her neck, murmuring, “You’re my sugar mama.”

He sleeps on the couch that night, and she spends the evening in their bed alone, painting her nails a somewhat unusual (for her) pale pink. She thinks maybe,  _maybe_  he’ll finally stop with the stupid, jokey code names. 

The next night, Oliver and the team are going after a particularly loathsome fellow preying on young girls in the Glades. Felicity sends them out with a quick, “Be very careful, please.”

They are, for the most part, and they leave that loathsome predator hog-tied for the SCPD. Oliver calls it a night, then: “ _Green Arrow_  to _Starter Wife_ , we’re all good here.”

There is sudden, complete silence on the comms. Then Laurel says, “Are you freaking kidding me?”

And Thea adds, “Wow, are _you_  an idiot.”

But Felicity starts to laugh. Because she finally gets it. “You’re incorrigible,” she says, still laughing as she checks her nails for chips. She knows that when she checks tonight at home, the names on the bottom of the Essie bottles will be these _ridiculous_  code names that Oliver’s been trying out. 

Once the team is on their way back, Felicity digs through her bag, pulling out her emergency nail polish stash. The small glass bottles clank together as she digs through, checking the names – checking her options for a response to Oliver’s little game. She’s still laughing when the others walk in.

Oliver quirks a brow, as the rest of the team watches them with varying degrees of puzzlement. Felicity waggles the small red bottle, then tosses it to Oliver. Or, more accurately, _sort of towards_  Oliver. He still catches it easily and flips it over, squinting a little to read the label. “Size Matters,” he reads, then starts to laugh. 

Two days later, Felicity approves “Overlord” as her code name; when she gets to the lair, a small bottle of dark grey nail polish sits in front of her monitors in the lair. The label says _Smokin’ Hot_. 

It’s not even close to the last time they use nail polish bottles to communicate.

Almost a year later, Felicity wakes up all by herself in their bed, slightly grumpy after sleeping alone. Her mood lifts when she finds a bottle of pale lilac nail polish on the bedside table beside a steaming hot caramel latte. She cries when she flips the bottle over to read the name. 

It says: _Meet Me at the Altar_.

-30-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: This is the result of my slight [Essie](http://www.essie.com/Colors.aspx) problem. I am also wildly curious how well this story works if you leap in without the tumblr-based discussion about color names=code names. :)


	76. Prompt Response: olicity AU, bowling alley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> celticsparrow517 asked: For the Ask Box meme: 1.) Olicity 2.) Bowling Alley
> 
> _Hmmmm, this one is a challenge…_

 

“Do you know how many awful bowling incident videos there are on youtube, Sara?” Felicity protests. Loudly. She’s standing at the rental shoe counter –-  _rental shoes!_   -– with her arms crossed, because she does _not_  want to be here. “Bowling _injuries_ , even?” she prods, poking Sara determinedly in the arm.

Sara gives the pretty, harried woman behind the counter a charming smile before shooting a glare at Felicity. “You are _not_  going to get injured.”

“There was one,” Felicity shoots back, “where the bowling ball got, I dunno, I guess stuck on the guy’s fingers? And then he basically threw the ball into the ceiling, and all these ceiling tiles fell everywhere.” There’s a decidedly male snort of laughter behind her, but Felicity ignores it, pinning Sara with a knowing look. “What if I throw the ball up in the air and then it _falls_ on me? Bowling balls are heavy, Sarah, and you _know_ I have terrible luck with ball-related things!”

Sara rolls her eyes. “You just need to find a ball with holes that work for your fingers.” Then she waggles her eyebrows.

Felicity just glares back at her, unamused. “That’s what you said _last_  time and the ball got stuck on my hand and knocked me over. I _suck_  at holding the balls right.”

The chuckling eavesdropper actually guffaws at that, and Felicity’s spine stiffens.

“Excuse me,” she starts, turning on her heel to face the –-  _oh, shit_  -– ridiculously handsome man grinning at her, “but if I wanted your commentary on the proper handling of balls, I’d ask you directly.” It takes about a second and a half for Felicity to _hear_  what she’d just said, and her cheeks heat up.

Sara loses it, dropping her forehead to Felicity’s shoulder as she laughs. To his credit, Mr. Handsome Eavesdropper presses his lips together and manages to keep from smirking her for, oh, about three seconds. Then he touches the shoulder Sara’s _not_  leaning on and dips his stupidly attractive face to meet her humiliated gaze head on. “I have to be honest, I’m _really_  hoping you’ll ask me that now.”

Felicity lifts a hand to her face and groans. “I _hate_  bowling.”

-30-


	77. Prompt Response: olicity, West Wing AU (or crossover, really)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Oliver/Felicity - West Wing AU :)))
> 
> _Ohhhhhhh, I love this. :) And since it’s AU, I am also time-bending so we’re solidly within the Bartlet administration here in 2016. WHATEVER. Just roll with it._
> 
> _Also…. three-sentence meme, BWAHAHAHA._

 

Felicity runs a shaking hand over her her dress, then turns what she’s sure is panic-face to her fiance. “Are you _sure_  this isn’t too...” She trails off, frowning down at the Democratic-blue fabric, and the amount of leg showing beyond it. “Short?”

Oliver rolls his eyes. “You’re being ridiculous, hon.”

She glares at him, crossing her arms. “It’s _the president_ ,” she hisses. “Attending the gun control event your office put together – this is a _huge_  story. Did you _see_  all those satellite trucks outside?” she demands. “City Hall is surrounded by the press!”

“Felicity,” Oliver says in that _Felicity-you’re-spiraling-again_  tone, “you’re beautiful.”

She hates that tone. “I need to look CNN appropriate! Which,” she continues, advancing on him where he’s leaning against his desk with that frustratingly  _effortless_  handsome-and-distinguished-in-a-suit...  _vibe_ he gives off, “means I have to look pretty, but not _too_  pretty. And-–”  She’s getting a little wound up now, picturing all the ways this could go wrong-– “I have to look _political wife_  appropriate! Not that I’m your _wife-_ –”

“Felicity-–”

“Not _yet_ , anyway. But my dress can’t be _too_  short.” She grumbles a little, reaching Oliver and poking him on the chest. “TMZ is bad enough with its  _Smoaking Ass_  feature.” She really _hates_  that recurring segment. “Jerks,” she mumbles. “I don’t even know where they got that bikini picture.”

Oliver straightens from the desk, his hand on her shoulder. “Felicity, ple–-”

“I’m just saying, Oliver, – the _last_ thing I need is for CNN to jump on the narrative that me and my short skirts climbed the corporate ladder the old-fashioned way. I mean,” she continues, “is that considered the old-fashioned way? Or maybe that’s more the _old-boys’ club,_ right?  _Whatever_. My point is that politics is–-” She splutters, unable to express all the _stuff_  flitting around in her head. “I mean, _politics_  is way more cutthroat than the league of–-”

“ _Felicity_.”

She blinks, shocked into temporary silence by the strange tone in Oliver’s voice. And then she notices the Secret Service agents around the edges of Oliver’s office. “The league of... women voters?” she finishes lamely.

From behind her, a familiar voice says, “Well, I certainly can’t argue with your assessment of the political climate –- or the often disgraceful treatment of women by the media, Ms. Smoak.”

Felicity’s eyes go very wide, and she stares at Oliver in horror. “Oliver,” she whispers, “is the president behind me right now?”

Oliver is grinning at her as he nods, gently turning her towards the door, where –-  _Oh, God -_ – the president is standing, flanked by a whole bunch of people in suits. Oliver steps forward, and Felicity moves with him, still stunned into silence. “Mr. President,” Oliver greets. “It’s a pleasure to have you in Star City.”

Up close, President Bartlet is handsome in that way distinguished older men can be, though Felicity can see the strain around his eyes suggesting he’s tired. Or maybe not feeling great? But he’s certainly friendly, shaking Oliver’s hand with enthusiasm. “I was pleased to learn you’d won the election and brought some stability to Star City,” President Bartlet says. “And,” he adds, turning to Felicity with a smile, “I’m so happy to see how well you’ve recovered.”

Felicity stutters a little. “Oh, thank you,” she manages. The president holds her hand between both of his, his blue eyes earnest and focused entirely on her. “I’m sure you know why gun violence is such a personal issue for me. I spoke to your fiance while you were in surgery that night, and kept up with your recovery. I’m so very pleased to see you looking so well, Ms. Smoak.”

“Felicity,” she corrects automatically, then flushes. Is she supposed to correct the president? Probably not, right? Oliver’s hand lands on her shoulder, calming her. “I mean, you can call me Felicity if you’d like.”

The president grins at her, releasing her hand. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to call me Jed.” 

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly, Mr. President,” she protests, flushing.

He nods good-naturedly. “Not even Leo calls me that anymore, and I’ve known him for decades,” he grumbles, turning to wave some of his staffers over. “Now,” the president says, his tone serious, “let’s talk about your gun control initiative.”

-30-


	78. Prompt Response:  olicity, disheveled & smug in the lair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> imagineyouroc:
> 
> Person A, noticeably disheveled as they enter the room: Sorry I’m late, I was doing stuff  
> Person B, also disheveled and grinning smugly: I’m stuff

 

Felicity skids into the room and stops, wide-eyed, when she sees Diggle standing near her computers. “Oh.” She _ever-so-casually_  smooths down her fuchsia dress and meets Diggle’s judgmentally raised eyebrow with a defiant lift of her chin. “Hi.” 

Her legs are still a little shaky from that _most excellent_  orgasm, and for one brief, panicky moment, she thinks she left her bra in the server room. She rolls her shoulder, feeling the underwire shift against her skin, and exhales in relief. Dig probably can’t tell, she decides. 

Except he is looking at her very suspiciously as he observes, “You’re late.”

Felicity grasps wildly for a reason. And fails to come up with anything. She’s a  _terrible_  liar –- not _Oliver_ -bad, but... not great. “Sorry,” she says. Lamely.

Diggle’s eyes narrow. “Your ponytail is a little...” He studies her. “ _Askew_.”

She’s caught. She knows she’s caught, but she really doesn’t want to sit through I Said No Sex in the Lair. (Again.)  _Fifteenth verse, same as the first_. So she owns that wrinkled dress and disheveled hair and just looks right back at him. “I was doing stuff.”

That super-judge-y eyebrow of Dig’s just inches upward in the _most_  disbelieving kind of way. Their staring contest is short, but he doesn’t have to do much but  _radiate his Diggleness_  at her to make her talk. She is biting her lip, holding back denials and confirmations with the last bit of her resistance when she hears a door close.

More specifically, the server room door. 

Felicity flushes at the sound of Oliver’s distinct footsteps approaching. Because, honestly, could his sense of timing  _possibly_  be worse? Then she makes the _huge_  mistake of glancing over her shoulder at him. 

His shirt is mis-buttoned and there’s more than a hint of her plum lipstick on his mouth. His  _smug, smirky_  mouth. 

He might as well be wearing a sign that says, **_She Came Twice: Ask Me How!_**

Felicity glares at him, but he just _smugly smirks_  right back.

“Hey,” Oliver says, and his voice still has that husky, post-orgasmic thing going on, and that should _not_  turn her on in this particular situation. 

“Oliver,” she laments. Dig’s gonna lecture them again. She _knows_  it.

Oliver just gives her a _really_  poor attempt at an innocent expression, considering how relaxed and well-fucked he looks. “What?”

It’s Diggle who answers, his tone sardonic. “She says she was doing stuff.”

Crossing his arms, Oliver nods slowly, his gaze flickering between Dig and Felicity. She’s got this creeping sense of dread that Oliver is going to say something really stupid and make Dig mad, and–-

“She was,” Oliver says. The words are innocent, but his tone is _so suggestive_  that Felicity drops her face into her hands to hide her blush. And, yes, okay, maybe relive a little bit of all that _stuff_  they were just doing to each other.

Dig groans. “I said no sex in the lair. _How many times do I have to repeat myself_?”

Oliver shrugs. “Apparently at least one more time.” When Felicity smacks his bicep, he smirks down at her and lowers his voice. “Sorry -– _two_  times.”

Felicity whacks him again, but there’s no heat behind it. It’s hard to be _too_ mad after two spectacular orgasms. Even if it means another lecture.

-30-


	79. Episode-Related:  3x12, Diggle and Oliver talk riiiiiight after Oliver follows Felicity into the alley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arrow ficlet set just after Oliver’s not-so-triumphant return from fighting Ra’s on the mountaintop (and, you know, the subsequent healing). Sparked by this bit of dialogue:
> 
> _Guilty. You were expecting something different Merlyn? You really thought we’d throw in with you? After what you did to Thea, to Sara to Oliver? Well that’s the thing, once we let the ends justify the means that’s just the first step. Becoming you._

 

 

“I need some air,” Felicity announces, stalking off.

“Oliver,” Diggle cautions, not wanting this little reunion to grow any more strained than it already has, “maybe you should give her a minute.” Because he’s watched Felicity hold herself together with duct tape and sheer determination for weeks now, and he’s more than a little concerned that Oliver’s unexpected return and even more unexpected announcement that he would be working with Merlyn has just lit Felicity’s fuse.

The explosion will not be pretty.

But Oliver turns his hurt expression to Diggle, adds a helpless shrug. “I can’t just-– I’ve waited _weeks_ to see her, and...” Oliver’s gaze shifts back to the door. “I need to talk to her. I need to explain.”

Roy takes a step -– not to block Oliver, but to catch his attention –- and says, “A lot’s happened here, Oliver. She’s...” He shrugs. “A lot’s happened.”

But Diggle already knows Oliver will do what he wants, so he watches, arms crossed, as Oliver gives a quick nod of acknowledgement and crosses to the door. When he reaches it, Oliver turns and gives them each a small smile. “Thanks for looking out for her.”

Diggle just shakes his head. Because that’s not really how it happened, but Oliver isn’t in the frame of mind to listen. When the door closes behind him, Diggle considers his options. He’s damn tired, and more than a little sore from the street brawl. He already promised Lyla he’d be home soon, but he has a feeling that Felicity, Oliver, or the both of them will be back down here soon, and odds are they’ll need something.

So he pulls his phone from his pocket and calls Lyla. Again. He’d barely been able to get the words out when he called her earlier. He’d been planning to save whatever emotional... nonsense... he needed to get out for the privacy of his own home, but when he heard Lyla’s voice, he just...  _broke_.

Just for a bit.

He’s much calmer this time around, because this problem feels familiar –- someone needs to handle an emotionally compromised vigilante. All of Diggle’s relief, all of his trepidation about Oliver’s cockamemie plan –- it can wait for later.

Lyla suggests that Diggle bring Oliver home for the night -– like a stray puppy -– but Diggle knows Oliver will probably sleep here in the foundry.

When Diggle hangs up with Lyla, Roy is standing awkwardly right where he was when Felicity stormed out. He hooks his thumb toward the door. “Should I...?”

Diggle is about to answer when the door opens and Oliver is making his way down the stairs, just a bit unsteadily. Crap.

Diggle sighs, then catches Roy’s eye. “Could you make sure she gets home safe?”

Mouth set in a firm line, Roy nods. He touches Oliver’s shoulder briefly on his way by, but doesn’t say anything.

Oliver reaches the floor of the foundry and kind of... peters out. He stands there, gaze unfocused, just about where he was when Felicity tackle-hugged him. Which was really just a few minutes ago. No wonder the man is reeling.

Shrugging out of his jacket, Diggle keeps an eye on Oliver while deliberately opens the old wooden crate and digs out Oliver’s vodka. He sets two glasses on the aluminum work table and pours generous shots.

Oliver ends up standing nearby, looking a little dazed, a little glassy-eyed, and Diggle wonders just what Felicity could’ve said in so short a time to leave Oliver so... adrift.

Oliver blinks at the proffered glass, then seems to come back to himself, at least a little. He manages the saddest half-smile Diggle has seen since the last time Felicity tried to convince him she was fine.

Dig lifts his glass, clinks it off of Oliver’s. “Welcome home, man.”

Oliver’s breath hitches, but he simply lifts the glass and downs the liquor in one long swallow.

Diggle follows Oliver’s lead and sets his empty tumbler down. “You want to tell me what happened?” Off Oliver’s wary look, Diggle sighs. “There’s a lot of blanks you need to fill in, Oliver. It’s been a month.”

But Oliver shakes his head, his expression sad and pleading. “Felicity?”

That one word holds a million questions, but Diggle is not interested in being their relationship counselor. “She’s the only one who still thought you were still alive, still really _believed_  it. And then Merlyn showed up with a sword covered in your blood. What _happened_?”

Oliver drops his gaze to the floor. “I lost. Someone I used to know –- he brought me to his wife. She saved me.” He shrugs, wincing slightly. “Somehow.”

Dig sighs, pouring them each another shot – less heavy of a pour this time. “Felicity -– she faced down Merlyn with steel in her spine. It was incredible, Oliver, but it just reinforced how much she despises him. I don’t understand-–”

“It’s the only way,” Oliver interrupts, anguish clear on his face. “I-– I can’t defeat Ra’s myself.” He lifts his shirt up, letting Dig see the bandages swathed around his torso, some dried blood indicating an incredibly dangerous wound.

Dig steps closer, eyes wide. “Oliver, how did you...” He shakes his head in awe. “It’s a miracle you’re here, man.”

Oliver dips his chin in acknowledgement. “Ra’s thinks I’m dead. I _will_  be if I face him again on my own. I need training, and Malcolm-–”

“First name basis now?” Dig interrupts. He can see the pragmatism behind Oliver’s plan, but he leans much more to Felicity’s point of view on this. There are somethings people can’t come  back from, and mass murder is one of them. “That man-–”

“I _know_!” Oliver interrupts. He takes an unsteady breath, sagging back to lean against the work table. “I know, John. He’s a ruthless, cold-blooded murderer. But he’s my sister’s father, and he also happens to have been trained by the man I need to kill. I...” He trails off, the brief anger fading quickly to disappointment. “I can’t see a better option. Can you?”

Diggle lifts the second shot and downs it, swallowing against the burn, thinking over Oliver’s argument. “I don’t like it,” he answers finally. “I don’t want the man down here, especially not with Felicity.”

“Agreed,” Oliver says.

“I’m not sure this is the right call, Oliver,” Dig warns. “And Felicity–-”

“I know,” Oliver interrupts, eyes shimmering again. He lifts his shot glass with a trembling hand and downs it. “She may never forgive me,” he rasps quietly.

Diggle shakes his head. “I doubt that.” Felicity’s heart is kinder and more forgiving than any of them, and when she loves, she loves with her whole being.

“You didn’t hear her,” Oliver argues, his tone defeated. “She–- She made herself very clear.”

“Emotions are running high,” Dig points out. “Give her some time to wrap her head around it.”

Oliver nods. “Yeah.” When he pushes himself away from the table, his posture is stooped. “I’m exhausted.”

Dig steps closer, clapping his hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “Glad you’re back, man. Get some rest.” He heads for the stairs, leaving the foundry to Oliver.

When Diggle reaches the landing, he glances back to see Oliver standing just behind Felicity’s chair, one hand gently resting on the back.

-30-


	80. Prompt Response: olicity, total glow-in-the-dark condom nonsense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> otpprompts:
> 
> Imagine person A of your OTP switching their usual condoms for glow-in-the-dark ones. Imagine person B discovering this only when they turn out the lights while wearing one.  
> Bonus: person A is laughing too hard to continue, to person B’s frustration.

 

“But _why_  do you want to turn the lights out, Oliver?”

“Because you had a long day, a stressful day and-– I just do.”

“Oliver, can I ask you a serious question?”

“Right _now_?”

“Oliver!”

“Yes. Of course you can. We can...  _talk_  right now instead of–”

“Not _instead_ of sex, Oliver. Just... Hang on a second.”

“Felicity?”

“Sorry, sorry. I’m–-”

“Fe-li-ci-ty. Why are you laughing?”

“No, I just realized I should’ve said _keep your pants on_ , since that’s actually appropriate to the situation.”

“Felicity, I’m not entirely sure where my pants _are_  right now, so...”

“I know, but I just meant-– You know what? We’re getting off track.”

“Instead of getting _off_.”

“Patience. Just... I wanted to make sure... Oliver... Are you having a bad body day? Because-–”

“Am I... a  _what_?”

“You know, one of those days where you feel kinda fat, or just -– do you even  _get_  those? Because you really shouldn’t.”

“Felicity.”

“I’m serious. On your _worst_ day –- since we’ve been sleeping together, I mean -– on your worst day, you’re still easily a ten. Probably an eleven, though, honestly, your ego–-”

“ _Felicity_.”

“-–does _not_ need boosting. What?”

“I’m not having a _bad body_  day. I don’t think guys have those.”

“False.”

“What are you–?”

“Ray _totally_  had bad body days. He used to ask me to-– Did... you just _growl_?”

“I don’t _growl_ , Felicity.”

“Uh, you totally growled when I mentioned Ray’s body –- which... I shouldn’t really mention right now.”

“Yeah, I’d appreciate you not reminiscing about _Palmer_  while you’re naked in my bed.”

“Uh, this is _our_ bed, Oliver. Stop being a caveman. Well, except the growling. No one’s ever growled at me in bed before. Or _ever_? I think? I certainly don’t  _remember_ –-”

“Felicity, can we please just _stop_  talking about other people and turn out the lights?”

“Are you– Oliver, are you not attracted to-–?”

“ _Felicity_. What are you _talking_  about?”

“It’s not an unreasonable assumption! You’re always Mister Let’s Do It With All the Lights On, or Mister Let’s Fuck in Front of the Mirror, or–-”

“I am not any of those things.”

“You kind of are. Until tonight.”

“Felicity. I just... You know what? Never mind. Let’s leave the lights on and have sex. Right now.”

“So romantic.”

“Felicity–-”

“Would you please just tell me why you were so desperate to-–”

“I wasn’t _desperate_.”

“-–turn the lights off before touching me?”

“Felicity! I am lying _on top_  of you –- touching you with the lights on is _never_  a problem.”

“Okay. Then why–-?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It _does_  matter, Oliver! 

“The moment has passed, Felicity. Let’s just forget about–-”

“The moment is _gonna_  pass if you don’t answer my question, Oliver.”

“That... didn’t make sense?”

“You know what I’m saying, Oliver. Just _tell_  me-–”

“I bought glow in the dark condoms.”

“...”

“Felicity?”

“What?”

“This? It glows in the dark. I mean the condom does.”

“You... You bought glow in the dark condoms.”

“Yes.”

“On _purpose_?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, they’re... funny?”

“I don’t... I don’t understand –- you want me to laugh at your dick?”

“What? No!”

“Well, but–-”

“I definitely do not want you to laugh at my dick, Felicity.”

“Of course. You want me to take your penis very seriously. A point you emphasized by buying it glow in the dark accessories.”

“ _Accessories_?”

“You know what I mean. The end result is that if we turn off the lights right now, I will see a vaguely Oliver-shaped form and a big, glow in the dark penis?”

“...yes.”

“I will never understand men and their penises.”

“Felicity-–”

“I think we should turn on _more_  lights.”

“Felicity–-”

“I’m serious, Oliver. I am not having sex with a giant glowing dick.”

“ _Giant_ , huh?”

“Oh, my God. It’s like you don’t even _want_  to have sex tonight.”

“What if me and my _giant_ –-”

“Oliver.”

“-–dick promise to make it really, really good for you?”

“Fine. Go turn on another light and then get back here with your _perfectly adequate_ penis.”

“Felicity!”

“Above average?”

“Are you... trying to give _me_ a bad body day?”

“Of course not! Would it help if I said that this is my favorite penis in the entire world? _Oliver!_ Yes, put your finger-– Yessssss, like that. _So much_  like that, Oliver.”

“Don’t think we’re not gonna talk about your body later.”

“What? Oliver, why-–?”

“You have never had bad body day in your life, Felicity.”

“That’s –-  _ohhhh_ , keep going, keep…”

“You have a beautiful body, Felicity, and I’m gonna show you.”

“That– Amazing plan. Best plan. Love this plan. _Show_ me, Oliver.”

-30-

I heartily apologize for this nonsense. My default = nonsense!


	81. Prompt Response: olicity, things you said with too many miles between us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things you said with too many miles between us?

 

“Oliver, I-– I’m...”

“Felicity? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. _Completely_  fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m good. Great. Perfect. Nothing at all wrong with me.”

“Felicity, I can fly home if–-”

“Really. _Really_. I’m fine. I have news but I... don’t want to do it like this. Not _do it_ , obviously, because you _know_ phone sex is actually one of my favorite–-”

“ _Felicity_.”

“Though honestly, if we’d stuck to phone sex maybe I wouldn’t be considering telling my husband I’m pregnant over the phone.”

“...”

“Oh, no. Oh. Oliver. Wait. _No_. Erase the last ten seconds from your mind and let me–-”

“ _Pregnant_?”

“No! Me? Pregnant? That’s crazy. Clearly if I were I wouldn’t tell you that _over the phone_  when you’re stuck in Chicago.”

“Felicity, are... are you...? Are _we..._?”

“I am the worst person in the world. _This_  is why I told you to just call me tomorrow when you were back in Starling!”

“We’re having a _baby_?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“Why... are you _apologizing_ for this?”

“I’m not sorry you knocked me up, Oliver, I’m sorry that I’m the worst news-deliverer in the _entire world_. I was going to wait to take the stupid test until you texted that your plane landed, but then the stupid box was just _sitting there_  taunting me, and I thought, well, I mean, I could just read the directions. Make sure I’m prepared. No questions or anything. But it turns out? You just pee on it. There’s not, like, a lot of mystery to the process. And then the box was  _open_ , and a test kind of _fell out_ –-”

“Felicity–-”

“Okay, yes, I might have tipped the box a little, but _then_  it fell out, and you  _know_  I hate mysteries, so-–”

“ _Felicity--_ ”

“I took it. And I’m just so happy and freaked out and I needed to talk to you, but I should’ve _waited_  because you’re supposed to be hugging me right now!”

“Felicity, I’m going to the airport.”

“Oliver-–”

“I’ll FaceTime you from the cab.”

“Oliver, you’ll be here in less than 24 hours.”

“I’m supposed to be hugging you right now. I’m going to the airport.”

-30-

_Yeah, I almost took this angsty/metaphorical, but then I said, nope, fluffy and literal is where my brainspace is tonight! ;)_


	82. Prompt Response: olicity, things you said that i wish you hadn't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things you said that i wish you hadn't

 

The argument escalates quickly, leaving Oliver and Felicity glaring at each other while Diggle and Thea and Laurel begin to move away, giving the couple their space. For a truly _stupid_  argument. Oliver honestly doesn’t understand how they’d reached this point, but Felicity has a full head of steam and is moments away from breaking out the loud voice.

“No,” Felicity repeats stubbornly. “I don’t care if you’re having jealousy issues–-”

Irritation flares and he bites out, “I’m _not_ –-”

“I don’t _care_ , Oliver,” she interrupts, narrowing her eyes at him. “You can’t just  _manufacture_  an emergency to get me here just because you–-”

“Manufacture?” he repeats, eyes wide, arms crossing. God, she can be so exasperating. “There’s a _train_ accident, Felicity.”

“Right,” she agrees, gesturing expansively toward her screens, where footage of the accident is playing on a loop. “ _Accident_. Are you planning to _arrow fate_ , or...?” She trails off, her words heavily steeped in sarcasm.

Oliver bites back his first  response and takes a steadying breath before he says, “We don’t know whether larger, ill-intentioned forces were at work.”

“Oh, my God, Oliver, the only one with bad intentions at the moment is _you_.”

“I did _not_  interrupt you and _Ray_  on purpose, Felicity,” he protests. Loudly. Because it’s not _his_  fault a rather suspicious train accident happened while she was having dinner with her _ex-boyfriend_ , of whom Oliver is _absolutely_  not jealous. He didn’t _plan_  to have to call her back to the lair and cut her reminiscing with Ray short. That was... just a happy coincidence. “Unless you think I sabotaged the tracks.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Oliver,” she scoffs, her hand flailing a bit wildly in the air. “My point is, no matter how jealous you are of Ray –- for _no reason_ , I might add–-”

“I’m not _jealous_ ,” he mutters defensively. And he’s _not_. He doesn’t much  _like_  Ray, but that has nothing to do with Felicity’s little...  _relationship_  with the man. His jaw clenches and he tries to push down the swell of _not-jealousy_  to focus on Felicity’s ongoing rant.

“–-so you can’t expect me to just come every time you crook your finger!” she all but yells, her cheeks a little pink from her exertions. 

Her words ring in the sudden silence, and Oliver’s frustration shifts quickly and completely to amusement at her unintended double meaning. God, he loves her. And her incomparable way with words. And the way she bites her lip in bed. And the sounds she makes – he has to press his lips together.

Or dragging her out of here in search of the nearest private, flat surface. 

Felicity tilts her head to the side. “What are you–-?” And _so_ very belatedly, she freezes, eyes going wide. Her cheeks burn and then she’s glaring even harder at him. “ _Oliver_ ,” she whispers angrily, “you _know_  what I meant.”

He just shrugs at her, and he’s not _actually_ smirking, but it’s a close call. Because he knows her body, and, if he’s being honest, she _does_  come every time he crooks his fingers a certain way. And from the blistering _awareness_  on her face, he knows they’re both thinking the same thing right now, and _goddamnit_ , why did she have to say that in the middle of a team meeting?

He glances over at Diggle, who is giving him a truly distressed look, shaking his head slowly. “Dig, we’re sure it’s an accident, yeah?”

Thea shudders. “I so very much hate it when this happens.”

Oliver ignores his sister’s theatrics. “Dig?”

“Yeah, we’re sure.” 

Oliver nods once. “Great! Team meeting over,” he announces, reaching for Felicity’s hand. “Let’s–-”

“Are you _kidding_  me right now?” she squeaks, yanking her hand free. “If you think those fingers are getting anywhere _near_  me after–-” She slaps a hand over her mouth.

“And on that _truly damaging_ note,” Thea interrupts, heading for the elevator, “I’m out.”

“Yup,” Laurel agrees, two steps behind her friend.

Dig simply sighs and looks back and forth between Oliver and Felicity. “I don’t know why I thought it would be better once you were together.”

“John,” Felicity says, “please–-”

“I think we’ve all said enough for the evening,” Dig interrupts. “G’night.”

Felicity watches the elevator door close, then turns back to Oliver. “This is your fault.”

It’s really not, but he’d rather have sex with her than argue with her, so he just shrugs. He holds out his hand. “I’ll make it up to you.”

She considers for a long moment, then grumpily accepts. “You’d better make it up to me at _least_  two times.”

This time, Oliver doesn’t bother to suppress his smirk. “How about we go for three?”

-30-


	83. Prompt Response: olicity, things you said after it was over, angst, S4 spoilers/speculation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> olicity, things you said after it was over, angst. **Spoilers for season 4 – including speculation about fallout from certain S4 plot points.**

 

“ _I never meant to hurt you, Felicity. I didn’t want to lie. Not to you. Not about this.”_

His words ring in her memory, day after dreary day. Night after semi-sleepless night. Felicity wants to forgive him. Wants to get over her hurt and her anger.

But she _can’t_.

She learned her lessons too well, long before she met Oliver. She learned that she’s the only person she can really, truly rely on. Even her mother -– the parent who stayed, who loved her -– couldn’t always give Felicity what she needed. 

But Felicity is a survivor, so she learned to make do. To get by. To self-soothe.

It’s the way she learned to survive being left alone before, time and time again. And it’s why she knows she’ll survive this, even if it’s so much harder now. 

 _Everything’s_  harder.

Because she’s still learning to live in her new body, still learning the more challenging post-paralysis life skills. Hell, she’s living in the apartment quarters of Palmer Tech, where everything is high end and beautifully appointed -– and almost _nothing_  is accessible. 

When Oliver had been hers, he’d been a constant support, a literal helping hand as she adjusted and tried to cope. He’d been amazing, if she’s being honest. Still, she’d been left in the loft more than once with no way to get to her bed. She’d struggled her way to and from the small, not-super-wheelchair-friendly downstairs bathroom. She’d learned to rely on what she can do.

So she tugs the toaster over near the edge of the too-high granite countertops, and she doesn’t buy frozen food because she can’t reach the freezer -– and she can’t really cook anyway. She replaces Ray’s old bed with a low-lying bed, one she can maneuver in and out of with ease. 

She copes. 

She adjusts to living alone, in a space designed for people who can stand on their own two feet.

Which she can do in every way but the literal. She is a self-sufficient woman, and she is perfectly fine being alone. She is surviving the end of her engagement, the end of her relationship, even though it’s harder than any other abandonment she’s ever dealt with.

Because she’s loved before, she’s lost people she’s loved before -– she’s even lost  _Oliver_  before.

But never like this. Never has she lost someone after surrendering everything to him, after agreeing to _marry_  him, after letting him help her through the worst thing that’s ever happened to her. 

She let herself believe he would always be hers, always be there. She let herself buy into the lie that he gave her –- that they’d both fallen, that they’d both lost and then found themselves in each other. She’d believed in his honesty.

Instead, he’d lied. Over and over. And she can’t find it in herself to be okay with that.

And so he watches her with sad eyes when she’s nearby. He fights back tears when she refuses his help. He nods, eyes downcast, when she says, again, she doesn’t want to talk about it.

Because he says he didn’t want to lie to her, and he says he didn’t mean to hurt her.

But he _did_.

-30-


	84. Speculation Fic: olicity, 4x15-ish spoilers/speculation, angst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes my brain gets angsty. Spoilers/speculation for the next couple eps that popped into my head on my drive home.

 

She doesn’t take everything when she leaves.

He doesn’t know if it would’ve been better or worse if she had. Would her complete absence from their shared home tear him up more than a thousand little reminders of her everywhere? 

Oliver is brave about many things, but he stands outside of the door to the loft for a long time trying to work up the courage to go inside. Alone. He knew she’d be gone, but when he opens the door, the reality of it is indescribable. 

The loft used to feel warm and even somehow cozy, despite its outsized dimensions, and standing here by himself, he knows now that was all Felicity. Her voice used to ring through the space, her bright sweaters strewn along Thea’s high-end neutral furniture. Tonight, there’s no music playing, no heels tossed carelessly towards the foot of the staircase, and that shawl/wrap _thing_  she loves so much is missing from its spot on the couch.

Oliver sinks onto the empty couch and drops his pounding head into his hands, only belatedly realizing that he’s crying again. He’d first cried at the devastated look on her face when he caught up to her backstage, after the debate. Before she’d even said a word, his vision had gone watery and distorted, because he knows Felicity well enough to recognize that stubborn steel in her spine. She’d made up her mind before he even had a chance to talk to her, to _explain_. She’d been a vision in purple, her tiny figure still larger than life as she faced him, her expression carefully neutral. But he could see the tension, the strain, even as she fought her own emotions so she could get away from all prying eyes before she broke.

“C’mon,” he’d murmured, then led her away from Thea’s glare and Diggle’s cool expression. Felicity had hesitated, then acquiesced, rolling past him and into a nearly hidden service elevator.

They’d talked in the control booth high above the debate stage, surrounded by sound and lighting equipment. He’d explained as she watched him in tearful silence, his voice spiraling higher, his tone pleading, desperate. He’d confessed every thought he’d had about the impossible situation, his instant and visceral urge to protect William, the constant churn in his gun from not being able to share this with her when that’s all he wanted to do. 

The shame, every time he told her a half-truth and went to Central City.

“A lie,” she’d corrected, the first words she’d spoken to him. Then she’d told him she needed time –- time to think, time to process, time to pack. To _leave_.

Oliver took it -– what else could he do? -– right up until she slid his ring from her finger and held it toward him, her lips pressed tightly together.

He’d refused to take it back. Because he will do anything to make this up to her, he will do whatever she asks, _except_  quietly agree to a permanent split. That, he can’t do. The tiniest flicker of hope remains lit in his chest because although she’d argued with him, she’d eventually huffed and dropped the ring into her bag before turning the wheelchair and setting off to find Diggle.

She’s no longer _wearing_  his ring, but she hasn’t technically given it back to him. It’s a razor-thin reed of hope to cling to, but Oliver has made do with less.

Still, he jolts off the couch on unsteady legs, unwilling to keep reliving the hellacious last hours of his life. He makes his way upstairs, pausing to take several deep breaths outside their room. He knows this will be the worst, because this room has the most of _Felicity_ in it. And this room is where he’s made love to her again and again, before her injury and after, showing her with every reverent touch that he loves her like he’s never loved anyone.

It’s the truest thing he’s ever known, his love for her.

When he steps across the threshold, his gaze slides immediately to her nightstand. They’ve had a dozen playful fights over her tendency to pile things haphazardly there –- glasses, tablets, phones, phone chargers, nail polish, nail polish remover, tissues, makeup removers, lotion. Tonight, though the nightstand is bare, save three abandoned bottles of nail polish. Another stark reminder that she’s left him.

He moves without really thinking about it, dropping onto the mattress where Felicity should be, his shaking hand scooping up the nail polish bottles. He recognizes one from their trip – he remembers seeing the bright aquamarine in a drugstore, though he can’t for the life of him remember where they were at the time. He remembers the way she lit up with he presented the small bottle to her. He remembers the sharp scent of the nail polish, the grin on her face as she threatened to paint his toes while he sleeps. He remembers aquamarine nails digging into his skin in ecstasy. 

The small nail polish bottles are cool in his palm, and he stares down at them. Here and now, all he’s left with are memories of her. That, and these small, bright pieces of Felicity left in their bedroom. 

Her absence is a physical ache in his chest, a heavy weight on his lungs.

He misses her scent, the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers, the low hum of her wheelchair on the floor as she approaches, her disgruntled, disoriented nonsense upon being woken up. God, he misses _her_ , and it hasn’t even been a day. There’s so much swirling around in his chest, so many things he wants to say to her, but he can’t, because she’s asked for time and space. 

Instead of reaching for her, or for his phone to call her, he reaches for his journal. Words pour free – apologies, pleas, explanations. 

Promises and vows.

When he’s done, he tears the sheet out of his notebook and rolls into the middle of the bed, placing the letter on her nightstand. He uses her abandoned nail polish bottles as paperweights, and hopes that someday she’ll come back.

That someday she’ll read his words and believe him.

That someday she’ll come back and fill his world with color again.

-30-


	85. Prompt Response: olicity, things you said when you were drunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Things you said when you were drunk
> 
> Sorry this is from a week or two back, and I have no idea what this is. Heh.

 

Oliver wakes with a hangover. It’s a strange feeling -- familiar and not. He used to wake up hungover most mornings, but it’s been a really long time since he’s felt comfortable -– _safe_  –- enough to get that drunk. To let himself be so defenseless. It’s been at least eight years.

There’s only one person who’s able to make him feel safe.

His eyes blink open, expecting to see her blonde hair and warm skin beside him. They’ve spent nearly a full week in this small rental along the Italian coast, and more than two months traveling together so far. He’s become accustomed to waking up with her in his arms, or at least within reach. He’s grown to love warm sheet and lazy morning sex and the way she grumbles her way into alertness one reluctant, nonsensical comment at a time.

This morning, he’s hungover and he’s alone in bed. He tries not to panic. Pushing himself upright, Oliver groans at the pounding protest in his head, then pulls the sheets aside. He’s wearing boxer-briefs and one sock -- the hell? -- so he pauses to slip off the sock. 

The cool floorboards creak under his feet as he moves to the bathroom. He relieves his bladder, dry swallows three Advils, and splashes water on his face before heading downstairs.

“Felicity?”

She doesn’t answer, but he knows from the soft sound of the sea that the sliders are open. She must be on the small wooden deck overlooking the Mediterranean. 

Sure enough, he sees her through the open sliders, draped on a lounge chair with a bright pink floppy hat on her head and a small paperback in her hands. She’s wearing very tiny shorts and a snug t-shirt, and his body tightens at the familiar, luscious site of her.

“Morning,” he says, squinting against the unrelenting brightness as he steps out into the warm summer breeze. 

“Hey.” She smiles up at him from behind over-sized sunglasses. Even with so much of her face hidden from him, he can read the note of...  _something_  in her expression. Anxiety, maybe. Confusion.

“Felicity?” he asks, dropping onto the chair beside her, hating that burning doubt in his chest. Being with her has been more than he expected... it’s been  _everything_ , and he still can’t fully believe it’s real. He can’t believe he deserves this, deserves _her_ , no matter how badly he wants it.

“How’re you feeling?” she asks. “You really enjoyed your limoncello. All six of them,” she adds dryly.

Oliver winces at the phantom taste of the sweet, bitter, _strong_ drinks he’d had last night. “I’m fine.” She tilts her head to the side in wordless disbelief. “Mostly fine,” he admits. “I took Advil.”

She hums in amusement and turns back to the book in her lap. But there’s still... there’s _something_  going on with her, and he needs to make sure it’s something small, something fixable. He needs to fix it.

“What about you?” he asks. “How’re you?”

Felicity goes still for a moment, and Oliver feels something in his chest plummet into the floor. When she carefully places a small brochure for Pompeii into her book as a bookmark and sets it aside, Oliver takes a big, bracing breath. His hands are shaking a little, and as she shifts in her seat to face him more fully, he feels incredibly naked sitting there in last night’s underwear.

When she simply watches him, Oliver lets out a very anxious, “Felicity?”

Her hand lands on his knee, fuchsia nails impossibly bright against his semi-tanned skin. “You said something last night that stuck with me.”

Oliver’s hand grabs onto hers before he can weigh his actions. He wraps her hand in his, effectively clinging to her. “When... when I was drunk, you mean?” he asks, and, God, he is really dreading the answer.

A nauseating slideshow of all the truly _stupid_  things drunken Ollie had done races through his mind, making his breath catch in his chest. And maybe _feeling safe_  was never the real reason for him to avoid getting plastered.

“Yes,” she answers, her fingers squeezing his. He realizes he’s staring at her fingernails against back of his hand, and jerks his gaze up to her. She reaches up, pulling her sunglasses free, and he can see uncertainty in her beautiful blue eyes. “And I’ve been thinking about it. Do you--” She stops, her gaze slipping from his for a moment. Then she lifts her chin in that impossibly brave way of hers and asks, “Do you think I’m beautiful?”

For a long, _incredibly_  confused moment, Oliver stares at her. Then he lets out his breath in a relieved whoosh. Because-- “What? Are you–-? Of _course_  I think–-” He stops, shaking his head. “No, I don’t just  _think._ It’s not _subjective_ , Felicity. Of  _course_  you’re beautiful.” He answers with certainty, because this is not something he’s ever doubted. Not once. Not even back when his repressed, analytical mind tried to dismiss her as a resource, because he still couldn’t help noticing the brightness of her clothes and her spirit. 

But Felicity’s eyes are wide with surprise, and Oliver panics. Did he tell her she _wasn’t_? Is he going to have to put an arrow _in himself_  for extreme, unforgivable, drunken douchebaggery? “What did I-–? Did I say-–? _Felicity_ , what did I say last night?”

“That,” she blurts, and he gives her a tiny, confused head shake. “You said I was beautiful last night,” she explains, watching him curiously.

His brow furrows. “Okay.”

“And that’s...” She pauses, frowning as she searches for words. “That’s _new_ ,” she says. “and it made me wonder if you’re a drunken confession kind of person, or a drunken _confabulation_  kind of person, since you’ve never really commented on any opinion you may or may not have on my–-”

“ _What_?” he interrupts. “I’ve never-– What do you mean?”

She’s furrowing her brow right back at him. “What do you mean, what do I mean?” she demands, confused. “I’m just trying to–-”

“Wait,” he cuts in, because he _really_  needs clarity on this point before they move on, “you said I’ve never really commented on your beauty?”

Felicity shrugs. “Well, yeah.”

Oliver is aghast. Well and truly shocked. “I _haven’t_?” He remembers a hundred times his breath caught upon seeing her. He remembers the way he used to try so _desperately_  not to let his gaze skim her entire form and give the game away. He remembers a dozen stunning gowns on her amazing body, two dozen moments in the lair when his hands clenched and twitched at his sides with the desire to touch her beauty. 

But Felicity is looking at him like he’s lost his mind. “No,” she answers slowly. “You haven’t.” The nonchalance in her tone guts him. It’s like she would never expect him to compliment her.

“That _can’t_ –-” He stops, shakes his head. “Our date?” he asks, desperately, because the sight of her pushing to her feet, glowing with nervous beauty in the warm light of the restaurant is a sight he’ll cherish until he dies. “I _must_  have told you.”

She smiles at him. “Nope,” she answers. And because he knows her so well, he knows she is telling the truth. And that he is an unparalleled asshole. “I figured,” she continues, “I can tell by the way you look at me, and the way you touch me, you’re obviously attracted to me, so I mean...” And just like that, she shrugs it off. “I know I’m _pretty_. And I’m pretty badass, too, so it’s not like it really matters. I was just–- You were so _insistent_  about it last night, and I couldn’t figure out if you were trying to convince me or yourself.”

Her voice drops a little at the end, and the uncertainty, the self-doubt he can hear in her tone? That’s his fucking fault. Goddammit. He is gonna fix this somehow.

“No, no, no.” Oliver reaches for her, gets his hands around her waist and pulls her from her lounge chair over to his. She yelps, but goes with it, her hands landing on his shoulders as she brings her knees up, straddling him. 

She gives him an eyeroll and an exasperated huff. “Was that really necessary?”

He skims his palms along her back, across her shoulders, and then frames her face with his hands. Her giant hat casts a faint pink glow over her, and she is every inch the incredible, gorgeous creature he loves as she watches him warily. “Felicity Smoak, you are _beautiful_.”

She squeezes his shoulders. “This wasn’t a ploy to get you to–-”

“It’s _unconscionable_  that I haven’t told you that about a thousand times before,” he interrupts, and he’s doing that thing where he can’t stop his face from smiling at her, no matter what he tries. “I should’ve told you every time the thought crossed my mind,” he continues. “That unmercifully _tiny_  gold dress.” He leans in, pressing a kiss to the edge of her mouth.

“Oliver,” she whines, trying to lean forward, to draper herself more fully against him. 

He refuses, holding her still with soft hands, pressing light kisses along her jaw. “The moment you handed over Walter’s notebook and decided some lying jerk was worthy of your trust.” He grins against the flutter of her pulse in her throat. “When you overrode the locks and then got in my face about it.”

She laughs at the memory, her fingers tracing small patterns on his chest. “Are you going to try to name all the times?”

“Uh-huh,” he confirms, then nips the juncture of her neck and her shoulder. “It’s my penance,” he murmurs. “God, those jeans you wore to parachute onto Lian Yu,” he groans, remembering how it felt to lie, ever so briefly, in the cradle of her thighs. “The first time you wore yoga pants in the lair.”

She scrapes her fingernails lightly across his Bratva tattoo. “Your appreciation for my ass is not _quite_  the same thing as thinking I’m beautiful.”

Oliver laughs against her skin. “That’s where you’re wrong.” He lets go of her face, slipping his hands down and around, cupping that magnificent ass of hers. “This ass is just as beautiful as the rest of you.”

Felicity takes the opportunity to press closer, to nibble on his earlobe. “Tell me more,” she whispers.

The last of his panic slips away, replaced by a warm bubble of happiness in his chest. He hums his agreement, then mutters, “Hold onto your hat.” It’s her only warning as he rises to his feet with her held securely against him. 

Laughing, Felicity wraps her legs around his waist, and grabs his shoulder with one arm and tosses her hat to the floor of the deck with the other. “I don’t think I’m gonna need that in bed,” she grins.

He can’t stop smiling right back at her. “The first time I saw you in that hat,” he continues. He steps into the house, moving toward the stairs. There’s less teasing and more emotion in his voice when the pauses and says, “When you told me you believed in me.”

Her answering smile is a little watery. “I had a bloody head wound, Oliver.”

But he just nods at her. “And your ponytail was messy, and your blouse was torn. And you were _beautiful_.” 

Oliver kisses her then. He intends it to be soft and reassuring, but Felicity has other plans. Her tongue is in his mouth and her hands grip hard at the nape of his neck. She wriggles in his arms and he relents, putting her down. She’s breathing hard when she says, “I love you.”

“I love you, too, beautiful,” he answers. 

“Keep talking,” she decides, reaching for his boxer-briefs with a grin. “Bed’s too far.”

-30-

 _Notes: set this along the Amalfi coast for[@darlinginmyway](http://tmblr.co/m8TzrVVCJATRThO2Yz2QAAg), and this topic of conversation is for [@fanmommer](http://tmblr.co/mqd9D1b6rh26REsb_WM7uuA)_. :)   _Total schmoopfest. ::shrug::_


	86. Prompt Response: olicity, person A can read minds and person B is always thinking about kissing them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [otpprompts](http://machawicket.tumblr.com/post/139679652932/otpprompts-person-a-can-read-minds-and-person-b):
> 
> Person A can read minds and person B is always thinking about kissing them.
> 
> Olicity nonsense, **set during the middle of S2**. This was supposed to be quick and fun. ::sigh:: #wordybitch

 

No one figures it out in time -– which is how Felicity ends up dosed with a hallucinogenic. Well, more accurately, she’s less _dosed_  and more...  _in the path of liquid that gets her straight in the face, including in her mouth, her nose, and her eyes, all of which burns a little_. It’s just that the liquid is, apparently, the “ _diseq”_ they’ve been searching for. Yay, team. Target acquired!

Except–- “Shit,” she mutters, blinking the wetness away, wiping the back of her hand across her face. So much for staying out of the fray. Though in her defense, the fray joined her out on the loading dock. So. Totally not her fault.

“What’s wrong!” Oliver demands over the comms, in between grunts and the occasional _slightly_  heavy breath. Truly, his cardiovascular health is stunningly good. “ _Felicity_?”

“I’m okay,” she lies, because that was _definitely_  a fleeing drugmaker running by, and he _definitely_  tossed a batch of _diseq_  all over her. How _not okay_  she is, they can figure out back at the lair. She’s pretty sure people usually ingest the drug in gelcaps, instead of taking kind of a bath in it? Guess she’ll be staying in the lair to ride out the high. Or the hallucinations. And _why_  do people enjoy hallucinating, anyway? It sounds kind of awful?

Abruptly, Dig is standing in front of her frowning. “What is all over you?” he demands. And she blinks up at him, confused as to how he’s suddenly on the small loading dock with her instead of inside fighting.

“Got dosed,” she admits. Oliver grumbles something angrily in her ear, but Felicity ignores him and focuses on Dig, who reaches for her shoulder. “Wait, don’t _touch_  me!” she yelps, stumbling backwards. “It’s all over me, and we don’t know if–-”

 _Oh, fuck no_ , she hears in Diggle’s voice, but he sounds so _panicky_ , and maybe also a little angry? And he normally maintains his cool exterior pretty well –- if he’s this freaked, maybe she’s not freaked out _enough_? Startled, she stares up at him. “You think it’s that bad?”

“What?” Dig frowns at her, and he sounds much more like himself. “Everything’s gonna be fine, Felicity.” He taps the transmitter on his chest. “Arrow, I’m taking her back to wash up, limit exposure.” _Make sure she trips safely_.

“How can you trip safely?” Felicity grumbles, and then Dig is right in her face, examining her closely. “What?” she demands, frowning up at him. “Oh, you meant tripping, like _tripping balls_ , huh?” 

Dig narrows his eyes.  _Salamanders and Oreos_.

Felicity wrinkles her nose. “What the hell, Dig? Salamanders and Oreos?? Do you _eat salamanders_? Where would you even _find_ –-?”

“Arrow,” Dig half-shouts, one gloved hand firmly clamped on her arm as he tugs her toward the van. “We have a problem.”

& & & 

Felicity heads straight for the small and kind of crappy shower in the lair when she and Dig make it back. Because (a) _covered in liquid hallucinatory drug_ , and (b) Dig is being totally weird –- he won’t stop saying “Nothing’s wrong. Nothing’s wrong. It’s gonna be fine.” 

It’s freaking her out.

So she stays in the shower a long time. There’s surprisingly good water pressure for a bathroom cobbled together by Oliver, Roy, and Dig, plus Felicity’s annotated instructions based off a few YouTube videos. After scrubbing herself clean, Felicity just kind of... turns her face up to the spray and lets her mind drift. It’s possible she’s avoiding opening her eyes, since she’s expecting to start seeing fiery dragons or sparkly unicorns at any moment. “I was told there’d be hallucinations,” she mumbles as she dries off. 

She’s not exactly part of the suited up portion of the team, so her available change of clothes at the lair is just workout gear. Specifically, yoga pants and a sports bra/tank top combo that lives her feeling a _bit_  chilly when she opens the bathroom door.

She has barely cleared the threshold when Oliver appears in front of her. “Are you okay?” he demands. _Please, please be okay_. _You have to be okay_.

Felicity blinks, a little surprised by the vehemence of his reaction. “I’m okay. No narwhals yet,” she adds, with a little shrug.

Oliver’s brow furrows in that impossibly attractive way. _How can she be so irresistible even when I’m terrified_.

She can feel her mouth drop open in shock. “What?” Because, seriously...  _what_? Is he high, too?

Oliver’s expression goes flat, but his eyes are strangely intense as he steps back from her. “Any hallucinations?”

“Nope,” she answers. Then she pauses, because-– “I don’t think so.”

“Are you-–” Oliver stops, folds his arms across his chest, and sighs. “Are you hearing things?”

Felicity stares at him, nonplussed. “Am I... what?” She gives her head a little shake, which is an incredibly weird thing to do, since it’s not like she has _water in her ears_ , but her brain has always worked in its own mysterious way, so here she is. She wrinkles her nose in consternation. 

 _Don’t kiss her. You can’t kiss her. It doesn’t matter how much you want to taste her, you can’t kiss_ –-

“Oh, my _God_ ,” Felicity splutters, shocked to hear Oliver talking about kissing her. Because she _knows_  that’s not real. (Even though she really really really  _really_  wants it to be.) “Okay, yes. Definitely –- you meant auditory hallucinations? That kind of hearing things?”

“Felicity–”

“ _So totally_  happening,” she say with an emphatic nod. “And don’t ask me to explain, because I really –-  _really_  -– won’t. Just... Oh, hey,” she whirls around, looking for Dig, “how about we sedate me until I stop hearing imaginary Oliver who wants-–” She claps her hands over her mouth with a little yelp.

Oliver’s gaze is resolutely on the ceiling, his chin tilted up, but she can still very clearly see his mouth _not_  moving at the precise same time she distinctly hears his voice saying,  _Stop thinking about her. STOP._  

“This is definitely what going crazy feels like,” she decides, circling _way_  around him to head for her bag. She’s just misreading his general distress that she’s, you know, _totally high_  and her stupid, stupid imagination is supplying total nonsense about him being attracted to her. Basically, she’s torturing herself. “Drugs _suck_ ,” she decides, huffing out a frustrated breath.

“Felicity, where are you–-?”

“Home!” she interrupts. “If I’m home, by myself, maybe I can enjoy-– No!” She spins back to face him, one hand held up to pacify him, even though he has _no idea_  what she’s talking about and she’s being ridiculous. But again -– _going crazy_ with strangely unstoppable _self-torture_. “I don’t mean _enjoy_  like I’m going to go try to hallucinate about-–” She snaps her jaw shut _just_  before the “you” pops out.  

But Oliver’s gaze on her is a little...  _heated_ , maybe? Which is definitely strange –- is she imagining that, too? She can definitely feel her face flushing in reaction. 

And then he takes a step closer, and she can _hear_  his voice repeating, _You can’t have her. You can’t kiss her. You can’t peel those yoga pants off of–- No, you can’t. Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking–-_

“Stop thinking about me!” Felicity orders. Loudly. Then she winces. “I mean-– Nothing. I’m hallucinating?” She tries to explain. Or deflect, really. “And it’s getting weird.”

“Felicity,” Dig interrupts, appearing from the back entrance of the lair. “We think maybe... the drug isn’t making you hallucinate.”

She scoffs. Aloud. “Well, whatever it is, it’s definitely not real, so...?”

Crossing his arms, Diggle stops about two feet from her and stares down at her, holding her gaze. _I think you can hear our thoughts._

Felicity’s mouth drops open. Because-– because–- he totally didn’t say anything, but she _heard_  him speak. In her brain. “Oh, God. Did you just–-?”

_Say ‘Big Belly sucks.’_

“Big Belly sucks,” Felicity echoes without thinking. “I mean, _no_ , it doesn’t. You know I love Big Belly, but you told me to...” She trails off, because, no, he hadn’t  _said_  anything. So if he told her, he–-

“You can hear our thoughts,” Diggle confirms. 

“That’s absurd,” Felicity objects immediately. Then she panics. “Wait, can you hear _my_  thoughts? I should pinch myself. _Really_  hard. This is the worst kind of dream.”

Behind her, Oliver huffs a laugh, and she realizes she’s been hearing a low, steady hum of _Focus. Focus. Focus on the issue_ , from him while she’s been talking to Dig. When she whirls to face him, Oliver has that stupid warm smile on his face, that one that makes her _feel_  things. Impossible things. “No, we can’t hear your thoughts, Felicity.”

“Good!” she says, then taps her forehead. “You think it’s bad when I’m _talking_ , then you _definitely_  do not want any part of this.”

_I want every part of–- No. Stop._

Felicity stares at Oliver, eyes wide, not even breathing, because he couldn’t possibly mean that, but that soft look on his face matches those thoughts _so well_  that she can almost let herself believe–-

 _Oh, fuck._ And then Oliver panics, practically running to the door with a hurried, “You’ll look after her, right?” to Dig.

“I am not a damn _cat_ , Oliver,” Felicity yells after him, offended. But as the door slams closed behind him, Felicity is finally sort of maybe a little convinced that the stupid drug is making her hear their thoughts.

“Damn,” Dig says from beside her. “What the hell was he thinking about?”

“Kissing me,” Felicity answers promptly. Then she flushes. “I’m sure it’s just how his mind works. We _know_  he makes poor sex-related decisions–-”

“Felicity–-”

“-–so I’m sure it’s just kind of Pavlovian with him, you know? Like, _see woman, want to kiss woman_.” Felicity nods. “Totally not about me. Just my ladyparts.” Then she flushes, because Dig didn’t need to hear that. “I’m really sorry for that.”

Diggle chuckles, turning to look down at her. “Felicity, I love you like a sister, and I need you to never talk to me about your ladyparts ever again, okay?”

“Deal,” she says.

 _And if you think Oliver’s attraction to you is *just* attraction, you’re crazy_.

“Oh, frak.”

& & &

Somehow, Felicity manages to fall asleep in the lair, wrapped in that weirdly scratchy grey blanket, curled up on the small cot tucked away near the pipes. The low murmur of Diggle and Oliver talking wakes her, and although she tries, she can’t quite hear what they’re talking about.

Eventually, she realizes she’s not going to be able to fall back to sleep, so she pushes upright, tugging the blanket along with her, draping it around her shoulders like a scratchy wool cape. “Hey,” she says, her voice scratchy as she approaches her partners.

Dig stares at her for a long, silent moment, then starts to smile. “You didn’t hear that?”

Felicity blinks. “Hear what?”

But Diggle just steps forward and kisses her forehead. “I think your scary superpower has faded,” he says. “I’m gonna head out.” He gives Oliver a judgmental look. “Get her home safe.”

She huffs. “Still not a cat,” she complains, but there’s not much heat in it. She loves that they want to take care of her. She does _not_  love when care turns to over-protectiveness, but they are trying. Usually. Sometimes. “’Night, Dig.”

When the door clangs shut behind him, Felicity takes an unsteady breath and turns back to Oliver. “I should–-”

“I’m sorry,” he interrupts, his voice low and soft and...  _open_  in a way that’s unusual enough to stop her in her tracks.

“For what?” she wonders. 

“For running away,” he answers, drifting a little closer. “That wasn’t very brave of me.”

She frowns, because she’s never even considered the idea of Oliver lacking courage. The very notion is absurd. “It’s fine,” she says. “Hearing...  _things_  was a little freaky. Really glad _that’s_  over,” she adds with a little laugh. 

“Felicity,” he says, and she can’t help but meet his gaze. His expression is unguarded, his eyes wide, and she can see his finger and thumb circling against each other in that nervous tick of his. “I wanted to... explain,” he says.

“No, no, nope!” she decides, shaking her head for good measure. “Thoughts are private things. Your thoughts are _yours_ , and I should never have heard them. Not that I heard much! Besides,” she continues, the words tumbling out without her permission, “I know you have a high sex drive, Oliver.” She pointedly ignores the way his eyebrows jump up in surprise. “It’s only natural that, sometimes, when I’m the only woman around, you might–-”

“ _No_ ,” he interrupts, and he sounds... angry?

“Oliver?”

“It’s not about you being the only woman in the room, Felicity,” he tells her. He shifts, taking another small step towards her, and she can’t be sure, but she thinks maybe he looks uncertain? “It’s...” He pauses, blows out a nervous breath, and smiles a little. “It’s always you.”

Huh? Felicity just barely resists the urge to check him for a fever, or signs that maybe someone threw a bunch of hallucinogenics at him this time around. Because-– “You can’t be serious.”

“Felicity–-”

“You love Laurel,” she tells him. Reminds him, actually, because she knows that’s something _he_  knows to his bones. “And you love sex. And since you’re not with Laurel right now, it makes sense that you might...” She pauses, pursing her lips as she looks for the right word, “transfer that attention. And I get it, Oliver, I do.” She smiles at him, trying her very hardest to be supportive and nonjudgmental. “I’m in your face a lot, and you have needs, and-–”

“Stop talking yourself out of this,” Oliver interrupts, and he sounds angry now. “And please stop talking about Laurel. My feelings for you have nothing to do with Laurel.”

Felicity stops. Because -– feelings? What? “Feelings?” She blinks, and he’s suddenly just a few inches away from her, looking down at her with what definitely looks like _feelings_  to her. “Oliver?”

He leans in, moving so slowly, giving her all the time in the world to pull away. When she can feel his breath on her lips, he stops and whispers, “May I?”

Felicity has pretty excellent self-control, but here, in this moment, she gives in with a breathy moan, her hands landing on his biceps as she presses her lips to his. And it’s good. _God_ , kissing Oliver is better than it has any right to be. One of his big, warm hands comes up to cup her cheek, the other sneaking around her waist to settle on her back, gently pulling her closer. Felicity leans in, twining her arms around his neck as the kiss deepens, growing hotter and so much better.

When Felicity realizes they need to cool it, or just give in to having sex right here against a pillar, she presses one palm gently on his chest. Oliver understands her the way he always does, easing back, pressing several chaste kisses to her lips before straightening up. He smiles down at her, his hands clasped against the small of her back to hold her in place. 

“Wow,” she says. Because, honestly, who can articulate complex things after  _that_?

His smile turns the tiniest bit smug. “Yeah.”

She studies him, because no matter what else may be between them, she’s always been able to read him. “Is this for real?” she asks softly.

“Yes,” he answers immediately. “It’s so real that it terrifies me.”

Felicity frowns at him. “Thanks.”

He sighs, frustrated. “I wish you could still hear my thoughts. I’m not-– I have trouble...”

“Verbalizing your feelings?” Felicity supplies, her tone dry. “I’m aware.”

“Felicity,” he protests, one hand smoothing up her spine, urging her closer. He dips his head, kissing her gently. “You know what I mean.”

She beams up at him. “I usually do, yes,” she says, slipping her palms down his chest –- God, so firm and muscular and unfair –- and around his ribs, hugging him back. “We’ll work on the talking part,” she decides.

He huffs a laugh, a smile breaking through as he watches her, and she can _see_  it now, she can understand the emotions on his face when he looks at her. It’s so clear, she wonders how she ever missed it before. “We will?” he asks, and she can _hear_  the hope in his voice.

Knowing he’s unsure, knowing he wants this the way she does, it settles that last little bit of doubt. “Oh, yeah,” she tells him. “I’m pretty good at the talking parts.” Lightly, she drags her finger tips down his back.

Oliver groans. “You’re good at all the parts,” he tells her.

She absolutely cannot stop smiling. “You can’t possibly know that,” she answers primly. “You haven’t even seen all my parts.” She’s not even embarrassed by the double entrendre, because she may have meant that figuratively, but she absolutely means it in the literal sense as well.

“Oh, but I’m going to,” he mutters, leaning down to kiss her again, and the lustful promise in his words has her melting against his chest. 

“Oliver,” she pants, several minutes later, from her perch on the worktable. He’s standing between her legs, pressed so very firmly against her, and when he looks down at her, she doesn’t need to hear his thoughts to understand exactly what he wants. 

It’s exactly what she wants to, so she pushes him back just enough so that she can slide to her feet before him. “Take me home,” she says.

And he does.

-30-

_Hahaha, this was supposed to be one little scene of silliness. WHY, BRAIN, WHY?_


	87. Ficlet:  olicity, late-S3 AU silliness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU Arrow ficlet, set in a different kind of late S3. Wrote most of this like a year ago and then abandoned it. Found it the other day and decided to post – clearly, this is AU, since Oliver & Felicity’s relationship status is never a secret to their friends/family. Heh.

 

Diggle would be offended if he weren’t so amused.

Because Oliver, of “I ran out of sports bottles” infamy, has been trying to keep the change in his relationship with Felicity under wraps.

It wasn’t a country mile _near_  working, because Oliver had always gazed at Felicity like she was his favorite mystery to solve, and now that they were obviously together, he was trying very hard _not_  to gaze. Which just meant that he would gaze at her with that idiotic grin on his face, catch himself, and purposefully turn away with the worst attempt at nonchalance Dig had seen in a damn long time.

But Diggle could remember firsthand the strangeness of starting something romantic with a member of your squadron. He and Lyla had done their best to maintain their distance during the day, and had only allowed themselves casual dates, usually just hanging out among their peers but feeling like they were alone together. They’d never been openly affectionate until they managed to line up their leave and spend a weekend away from the rest of the group.

So sure, Diggle understood why Oliver and Felicity were trying to keep things to themselves. He made himself honor their wishes, even as they _so obviously_  beamed at each other and casually touched each other. They probably didn’t even realize they were doing it.

In short: they were just _terrible_  at keeping their secret.

But he limited himself to recounting stories to Lyla as they lay beside each other in bed. She _loved_  the stories, though she kept encouraging him to just tell them in a very low-key, no pressure kind of way that he knew and he approved and they should just own it.

But Dig had every intention to let them share their news on their own timetable, so he pretended not to notice their giddy, not-at-all-well-hidden secret looks.

Even when Felicity blushed crimson at the sight of Oliver tugging his shirt off to spar.

Even after Oliver absently stopped beside her chair and ran his fingers through her hair as they discussed a lead.

Even after Felicity offered the _worst_  explanation of why she and Oliver were leaving at the same time, but weren’t leaving _together_. (“Oh, I can give him a ride-- I mean, I can drive him home. It’s on the way. Well, not exactly on the way, but just a little loop to get from here to the loft to my house. Where _I’m_  going, obviously, because why would I--” At which point Oliver mercifully cut her off.)

 _Even then_  Diggle held his tongue.

No, what hurled Diggle so forcefully beyond his limits actually came in the middle of a sparring session with Oliver that, as was fairly usual with them, devolved into grappling. Because Oliver was a ridiculously gifted fighter, and athletic as hell, but Diggle had thirty pounds on him, and he should be able to pin Oliver more than one time in ten. Dammit.

But that night ended the way most of the other nine times did – with Diggle twisted and somehow in a hold, his cheek pressed uncomfortably against Oliver’s chest. Oliver held position for a moment, then released, and Diggle straightened, his attention caught by–

“Is that a _hickey_?” he heard himself asking. And, God, he wished his question was directed at some tame, small bruise on Felicity’s neck.

But that headlock had given him an unnecessarily close look at what was unmistakably a large hickey on Oliver’s stomach. And if that was a hickey, that meant that Felicity -- Diggle’s de facto _little sister_  Felicity -- had enthusiastically had her mouth all over Oliver. Including very low on his stomach, just above the waistband of his pants, which were pretty low-slung, as usual. And that was information that Dig never, ever, _ever_  needed.

 _Ever_.

Oliver pushed away and stood frozen, his gaze very carefully _not_  shifting to Felicity. “What?”

Dig closed his eyes for a moment. “Maybe we should institute a new rule about shirts and visible hickeys,” he managed, waving a hand in the general direction of Oliver’s abdomen.

“Dig,” Oliver tried to protest, “I don’t...” And then Oliver, master of deception, threw a panicked look at Felicity, who was sitting rigidly in her chair, mouth open in a shocked little “O.”

When she noticed Diggle’s gaze on her, she shot to her feet and skittered toward the staircase. “Well, this doesn’t concern me, so I’ll just leave you two to--”

“Felicity,” Diggle interrupted. Loudly. “This very much involves you, too, so--”

“Oh,” she nodded rapidly, eyes wide and _resolutely_  not on Oliver. “Because of all the hot, shirtless male anatomy that I get to look at in here – but not _touch_  or suck on– And by _suck on_ , I just mean like for hickeys,” she corrected, her voice high and frantic. “Not...”

The three of them stood in silence for a long, exquisitely uncomfortable moment.

Nose wrinkling in consternation, Felicity groaned. “Oliver, I can’t believe you let me say that.” Then she straightened, fixing her ire on her (now not-so-secret) boyfriend. “And I can’t believe you just took your shirt off all willy-nilly!”

“Willy-nilly?” Oliver echoed. “Felicity, I--”

“Oh, no,” she interrupted, “you’re the one who was all, _suck harder_ , so--”

“Felicity!” Diggle yelled. “Stop talking!”

She gave a little squeak, and Oliver stepped closer, so they were some kind of united, pro-hickey front. “Still just meant hickeys,” she muttered. Then she shrugged. “Well, I mean--”

 _Thankfully_ , Oliver leaned down and kissed her before _whatever_  horribly damaging collection of words in her brain managed to pour out and further scar Dig’s psyche. Oliver kissed her gently and --  _thankfully_  -- chastely before straightening and sending Dig a look that Dig couldn’t quite recognize. It wasn’t quite a challenge -- more like Oliver was bracing himself for... what? Disapproval?

Whatever Diggle wanted to say about their unintentional oversharing, he decided to address the big stuff first. “Okay,” Dig said. “First, I’m happy for you both.”

Oliver’s entire demeanor shifted, and he melted into Felicity a bit, tugging her closer and aiming one of those heartsick looks in her direction.

Tucked against Oliver’s side, Felicity absolutely beamed at Dig. “Thank you, Dig. We wanted to tell you, we just--”

“It’s fine,” Dig assured them. “Really. Just – please, no leaving visible hickeys.”

She flushed, pressing her lips together and glancing up at Oliver briefly. Then she nodded and ducked her head. “But he _likes_  it,” she protested quietly.

Diggle probably wasn’t meant to hear, but, God, he did, and he was gonna need an entire bottle of whisky when he got home. He took a breath, his gaze lifting towards the ceiling, searching for some sort of celestial intervention. “How about shirts, then?” he offered. “You two kids do whatever you want to do -- just, please, don’t make me know about it.”

When he made himself turn his attention back to them, Dig had to admit his friends looked pretty great. They stood right up against each other, Oliver’s arm slung around Felicity’s shoulders, and they were both basically glowing with happiness. He had the strange urge to shake Oliver’s hand in congratulations, to kiss Felicity’s cheek, just because the shift in them both was so big, and so _good_.

“Well,” Felicity said brightly, “I guess I don’t need to ogle you shirtless here when I get to take you home and--”

“Felicity!” Diggle interrupted.

She gave him a bashful look and a little shrug. “Sorry,” she apologized, but she didn’t _sound_  sorry. And Oliver looked positively smug beside her.

Diggle sighed, hands on his hips. “This is gonna take some getting used to.”

-30-

_Yes, I know, I am consistently cruel to poor, traumatized Diggle. :)_


	88. Prompt Response: olicity(ish), 4x15-related, oliver's reaction to having nightmares again now that Felicity left him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I missed putting this into the collection, somehow! Sorry!
> 
> Prompt: Anonymous asked: hello! love your Olicity prompts so much !!! could you please maybe write a prompt about oliver's reaction to having nightmares again now that Felicity left him (post 4x15) ?
> 
> _Thank you so much, Anon! You’re very kind. I’m only occasionally able to fill prompts, for both timing and inspirational reasons, but this one sparked something. :)_

 

These days, Oliver sleeps on the couch.

It’s not quite big enough to be truly comfortable, but there’s enough hard-won toughness in Oliver to make do. He uses her favorite blanket as a sheet, and the zig-zag throw pillow she’d brought home one late October day as his pillow, and it’s enough. It’s almost too much.

His first night alone in the loft, he’d been so tempted to move into the lair, to sleep on the small cot they keep for naps and emergencies. But he knows she didn’t leave him the loft to torture him with memories of their life together. No, Felicity wanted to make sure that he wouldn’t regress; that he wouldn’t go back underground, living alone, isolating himself. It makes his chest ache, her concern for him -- because he broke her heart, broke _them_ , and she still cares enough about him to want him safe and comfortable. Another reason in a long, _long_  line of reasons that she’s the best person he’s ever known, far better than he’ll ever be.

But he’s trying. _God_ , he’s trying so hard. He’s been talking to Dig and to Thea about William, about why he made the decisions he made, and it’s... starting to help. The choices that seemed so clear to him, so stark in the moment, are much less defensible with the benefit of hindsight. He understands, now, that he’d felt trapped by a situation out of his control, but the choices he made? They’re still  _his_ _choices_ ; they’re still his responsibility.

And undeniably, his choices are what broke the best relationship in his life. 

He’s been meditating again, trying to find some peace, trying to forgive himself for at least some of it. He is still convinced he ultimately made the right decision for William’s safety, but, _God_ , he wants so badly to be a father to his son. He feels incredible guilt for stepping away, and worries that William will feel his absence the way Felicity has always felt her father’s. 

Oliver is still grieving for William, for this newly empty space in his life where he thought his son would be. He’s grieving his relationship with Felicity, which he knows is fractured. He hopes, _hopes_ , it’s not damaged beyond repair.

The grief is like a living, breathing thing, trying to drown him in his own regret. He’s trying his hardest to get through it.

It’s so hard to find balance without her, but Oliver’s mature enough to understand that it’s not fair to put all of his emotional health onto her. It’s not fair to _need_  her as badly as he does. But she has absolutely changed his life for the better. Spending most of his waking and sleeping hours with her for the last eight months, learning how to love openly and support her when she needs it, it’s the best thing he’s ever done. With some notable exceptions that still make his neck burn hot with shame, he’d been her rock when she needed it, her reassurance when she let her self-doubts in.

And in return, she’d reminded him how to be happy, how to be carefree. She’d held him after his nightmares, letting him press his damp face against the soft skin of her neck, letting him breathe her in. Felicity is tiny, but she is mighty, and he’s never been safer than when she held him so securely in the warmth of their bed.

Her presence didn’t chase the nightmares away completely; not even Felicity Smoak can slay all of his demons. But he’s woken a hundred times in a cold sweat, muscles clenched, heart pounding, to the soft pressure of her tiny hand against his back, the sweet press of her lips against his shoulder. Her low murmurs have chased the echoes of screams away, grounding him to reality, easing him back to calmness. 

Over their months together, Felicity told him dozens of silly stories from college, diverting his mind from his worst memories. She shared embarrassing moments growing up with Donna until she coaxed a laugh from him, encouraging him to tell her some of his own favorite memories, their voices soft and intimate in their bed, their bodies curved towards each other, hands intertwined.

But these days, Oliver sleeps on the couch, and he sleeps alone. When he wakes, wide-eyed and terrified, there’s no warm embrace waiting, no soft comfort. Instead, his harsh breaths echo in the too-large loft, the empty, quiet, cavernous space where she used to be. There’s no warm bed that smells like her shampoo, no small, firm arms wrapped around him.

Instead, each time the nightmares wake him, Oliver scrubs a trembling hand over his face and makes himself lie back down. He focuses on his breathing, feeling his pulse slow. When the terrors retreat enough for him to close his eyes, he presses his nose into the blanket the still holds the faintest notes of her perfume. He lets his eyes drift shut and pictures her face.

Some nights, he tells himself a story, a happily ever after in which the damaged, well-intentioned man one day makes it up to the woman he loves.

Other nights, he lets himself relive his favorite memories with Felicity. Her cheeks flushed with wine, her smile wide and happy at a table in a restaurant in Positano. That diaphanous coverup she wore in Bali, its fabric fluttering in the wind and allowing him a preview of her bright purple bikini. Quiet dinners out on the patio in Ivy Town, eating with one hand because their fingers were tangled together in his lap.

He misses her, and he knows he’s not ready to try to fix everything yet. But he’s  _trying_.

-30-


	89. Smutty Prompt Response:  olicity, post-4x16, sex in the lair scene (RATED E)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Super hot sex in the lair scene. 

 

By the time Dig and Thea and Curtis accept that there are no real leads and clear out of the lair, Oliver is shirtless and beating the hell out of the wooden dummy in the corner.

Still fuming with stress and anger and, yes, okay, maybe a _little_  bit of lust, Felicity is sitting at her computers, tapping her toe irritably against the floor.

She’s mad about a lot of things, actually. Tonight, she’s mad about the total lack of leads on Malcolm Merlyn. How, exactly, can a one-handed sociopath keep such a low profile? It’s frustrating. It’s infuriating. She hates it. 

She’s mad about having to be in the lair in the first place, having to spend time in this place that she _loves_  with the man that she _loves_  while reminding herself that it’s temporary. Just for one day. _Maybe_  two. And then she will have to muster up the strength to leave him, to leave all of this. Again. 

She’s mad at herself, for not getting past this, for not getting over Oliver even the  _tiniest_  bit in the last six weeks. She’s mad that her heart is unreasonable and won’t respond to her flawless logic -- Oliver can’t be the partner she needs, and therefore, she can’t be with Oliver. It doesn’t matter that she loves him in a deep, stubborn kind of way that will not be moved. Love is not logical, or reasonable, and she does _not_  do well with irrationality.

Frustration burns under her skin, leaving her restless and keyed up and just...  _urk_.

When she hears the tell-tale clank of the salmon ladder, she is suddenly and incandescently furious  _at Oliver freaking Queen, that preening showpony_. 

“Are you _kidding_  me?” she yells, standing up so fast her chair rolls away from her. She barely notices, since she’s already down the stairs and stomping towards the impossible man. 

He’s dangling there a few rungs up, shirtless and sweaty and --  _seriously?_  -- still wearing the tight leather pants. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice a little deeper from the exertion. She hates the way her body still reacts to him.

“Aren’t you worried about chafing?” she snipes, glaring up at him.

He lets go of the bar, dropping into an easy crouch before straightening with his usual maddening grace. “Felicity, what’s--?”

“Do _not_  ask me what’s wrong,” she interrupts. Loudly.

He sighs irritably, and she bites down on the urge to smack him. Because he’s standing there, frustrated with her. As if _she’s_ the one to blame for the state of their relationship. As if _she’s_ the one who took something so precious and beautiful and killed it. He shifts, his hands landing on his hips, putting all of the sweaty chest on even better display, and she doesn’t want to smack him anymore.

“Is there something I can help you with?” Oliver asks, forced patience in his tone.

“Not anymore,” she answers, and then she winces. What is _wrong_  with her tonight? Her entire body is thrumming with anger, with awareness, and even though she really hates to admit it, with _lust_. 

His eyes narrow, his gaze shifting slowly down her body, taking her in. She can _see_  his pupils dilate when he figures it out, and it makes her angrier. He’s always been able to read her too well. She crosses her arms as he steps closer and asks, “You sure about that?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” she snaps back. “Because I _hate_  this.” He stumbles back, but she steamrolls on. “I _hate_  this tension, and I _hate_  having to come down here and pretend that everything’s okay. I _hate_  this distance between us.” It’s all true, especially that last part, but it’s nothing that she’d meant to share with him.

Oliver seems a little stunned, like the last thing he expected from her was this torrent of words. Which is fair -- she’s barely spoken to him the past few weeks. “Felicity--”

“ _Don’t_  say it’ll get better, because you know it won’t,” she interrupts. Loudly. Somehow she’s standing well inside his personal space, close enough to poke his chest. “This _thing_  between us isn’t going away.” She waves a hand in the space between them -- or that’s her intent, but they’re standing so close together that her fingers graze along the slick, warm skin of his chest instead. 

They both inhale sharply. Felicity freezes as they stare at each other for one long, unbearable moment. 

And then the tension between them snaps. 

Felicity moves without consciously deciding, throwing her arms up and around his neck, yanking him closer. Their kiss, this first kiss in _weeks_ , is messy and desperate, lips a little misaligned as their bodies collide. She’s up on her tiptoes, every muscle in her body straining towards him. Their lips move against each other, and nothing else matters in this moment, nothing but the feel of him against her again. At last. 

Oliver’s arms clench around her and he groans, one palm drifting down to cup her ass, to pull her closer. 

“Oliver,” she manages, then drops down from her tiptoes, tipping her head up, nipping at the skin of his neck. She’s leaving marks, but he loves it. Always has. And something primal in her _wants_  to leave a mark, to prove this is happening, to prove that he’s _hers_.

“Felicity,” he gasps, shifting against her, lifting her up. She curls her legs around his waist, whimpering when she feels him, hot and hard against her. “Love you,” he says, over and over. “Love you so much.” 

Felicity is vaguely aware of movement, of the air shifting as he brings her  _somewhere_. She hisses when cool metal touches the back of her thighs, opening her eyes to find he’s placed her on a worktable, the nearest flat surface to the salmon ladder that isn’t the rough cement floor. 

She scoots forward, her hands dragging along his sweaty skin, fingers digging in to pull him closer. When she glances up at him, his eyes are shining as he stares down at her in wonder. She understands why, but it’s too much right now, so she presses her palms to his cheeks, making sure she has a full attention before she speaks. “I know,” she says, “but right now, I need you inside of me.”

Oliver groans, swooping down, capturing her mouth with eager lips, sliding his tongue against hers. He doesn’t stop kissing her, even as his hands smooth up her thighs, pulling her skirt up. She’s fumbling with the fly of his Arrow pants, until he tugs at her panties.

Breathing hard, she leans back, lifting her hips, and he pulls her underwear free, one hand unerringly moving between her legs. Felicity hisses as his fingers tease across her clit, then dive lower, finding her wet for him. 

“Felicity,” he mumbles, mouth open on a pant, eyes glazed with lust for her. His fingers tease her opening, slip inside and _curl_  until she moans.  “I missed you so fucking much.” 

She’s nodding her agreement, tugging at his pants again, trying to free his cock, since Oliver doesn’t seem to want to take his hands off of her long enough to do it himself. Her hands are shaking, and the it takes her three tries to pull the zipper down. And then she pushes the pants down a bit, tugs his boxer briefs after them, and palms him with a satisfied little hum.

Oliver’s fingers still inside her, and she teases him with her hand, skimming over him, but not giving him any pressure. She tilts forward, sucking a mark into his chest, and that breaks Oliver’s temporary paralysis. He pulls his hands from her, grabbing her hips to shift her closer to the edge, urging her to wind her legs around him. 

Felicity brings his cock to her entrance, holding her breath at the sight, but Oliver hesitates. She tips her head back, meeting his heated gaze, noting the slight furrow in his brow. 

Oliver dips his head down, kissing her softly, tenderly, and then says, “Talk to me, Felicity.”

He’s requested that a hundred times in bed. He loves when she tells him what she wants, loves when she tells him how it feels, how _he_  feels. But she knows that’s not what he’s asking her tonight. 

Felicity reaches up, clasping his cheeks in her hands as she holds his gaze. “I love you,” she says, punctuating her declaration with a kiss. “I want you.”

And just like that, his hesitation is gone. Oliver looms over her until she leans back onto her elbows. He’s kissing her, one hand hiking her thigh higher, the other guiding his cock to her entrance. “Love you,” he mutters against her lips, and then he pushes inside.

Felicity lets her head drop back, panting with the feel of him inside of her again. Finally. Oliver’s mouth descends to her neck, licking and sucking his favorite spot, and she knows they’ll have matching marks tomorrow. The thought makes her clench around his cock, and he whimpers, pulling back and slamming into her. And again.

“Yes,” she says, arching her back, lifting her legs higher. He sinks in deeper. 

Dropping onto her back, Felicity brings her hands to his body, tracing his muscles, dropping one palm to his abs, feeling them clench as he fucks her. Her arousal ratchets up a notch, and she thinks she might be talking? But she has no idea what she’s saying, not when he’s warm and sweaty and moving over her, his teeth nipping at her skin, his tongue leaving hot, wet trails down her neck, his fingers finding her nipple through her shirt.

She’s spiraling fast, his damp skin beneath her palms, his big body moving rhythmically above her, inside her. Digging her fingers into his lower back, the rough, scarred skin achingly familiar to the touch, she urges him on. “More,” she orders. Begs, maybe. 

He moans, burying his face against her neck, his hips pistoning into her. She can tell from the way he starts to tense beneath her hands that he’s about to come. She’s so close; she slips a hand between them, getting two fingers onto her clit, circling quickly, and then–

“Oliver!” She arches _hard_  beneath him, her other hand grabbing his ass, trying to hold him against her as her body shakes. But Oliver is close, thrusting hard, losing his rhythm as she comes around him. 

His hand slams onto the metal table beside her shoulder, and he shoves himself into her once, twice, and then shudders against her. She can feel him pulse inside her, and she moans, wrapping her legs tighter, keeping him close.

Her heartbeat is loud and fast in her ears, her breath coming in pants, her shirt damp with sweat -- his and hers -- and she starts to laugh. Oliver shifts against her, leaning up onto his elbows to look down at her with bemusement. “What’s so funny?” he asks, still breathing hard.

“Nothing,” she answers. Because really nothing  _is_  funny. But -- “I feel _so_  much better,” she admits. 

His expression softens, and he smiles down at her. “I never feel better than when I’m inside you, Felicity,” he says, and then leans down, kissing her. 

They kiss slowly, breathing each other in, lips soft and warm and welcoming. Felicity lets her hands drift up and down Oliver’s back, soothing him, calming him. She feels calm, languid, her breathing finally slowing to normal. She squeezes his shoulder, and he pauses, looking down at her expectantly. 

“We need to talk,” she says. “A lot. Like, _a lot_ a lot. So much talking.”

He stiffens a bit, but nods. “I know. I have a lot of things I want to say to you.” He leans down, kissing her softly. “I have a lot of things I want to _share_  with you.”

“Sharing,” she says, and she’s grinning up at him suddenly, and she can’t seem to stop. “That’s good, Oliver. That’s-- Yes, let’s go do that.”

“Okay,” he agrees, shifting to move away, to pull out, and she tightens her arms to keep him still.

“Wait,” she says. “We can go do more of _this_  first, though,” she decides. 

Oliver smirks at her. “We can _definitely_ do more of this first.” He kisses her again, with a little more intent this time, and then groans and stands up, moving back. “But how about we go do this in a bed?” He takes her hands and pulls her upright. 

“It’s a solid plan,” she says, pulling her skirt down primly. “Sex and talking in bed. Excellent plan. Let’s go do that,” she says, sliding off the work table and reaching for his hand.

-30-


	90. Dialogue-Only Prompt Response: olicity, vaguely 4x17 related, Felicity convincing Oliver to read Harry Potter out loud to her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [peacefulboo said](http://machawicket.tumblr.com/post/141968750172/peacefulboo-machawicket-red-devilkin): And now I need a ficlet of Felicity convincing Oliver to read Harry Potter out loud to her during their summer away. Or the other way around. I’m not picky.

 

“You’re doing it wrong.”

“Ex... _cuse_ me?”

“No, seriously, Oliver. You’re doing it wrong.”

“I’m _reading aloud_  wrong?”

“Well, I mean, why offer to read the book aloud while I’m driving if you’re not going to do the voices and--”

“I didn’t _offer_ to--”

“--pronounce all the spells wrong!”

“Felicity, you tossed the book in my lap and said ‘Read to me.’ How am I supposed to know how to pronounce the spells?” 

“You can’t pronounce _stupefy_?”

“Felicity--”

“I’m just saying, Oliver, that you’re perfectly happy to get all, you know, _Arrow-_ y out in the field with the gruff and the grumble-y–”

“I’m confronting _criminals_ , not reading a--”

“Do _not_  say children’s book, Oliver Queen.”

“... _book_. And I have a voice modifier.”

“Oh, please, Oliver, you break out the sexy Arrow voice in other situations, too.”

“Are you blushing right now?”

“...no.”

“You think the Arrow voice is sexy?”

“Focus, Oliver. My point is that you _can_  do voices, so where’s your Hermoine Granger voice? Where’s your British accent, Mr. I Speak Fifteen Languages?”

“Four. And being good with _languages_ doesn’t make me good at  _accents.”_

 _“_ Same bloody thing, Guv’nah!”

“That... Wow, Felicity, that was _terrible_.”

“Oh, yeah? I’d like to see you do better! _Hear_  you, I mean.”

“Felicity...”

“I will make it worth your while.”

“Oh? How’s that.”

“I mean, you’ll have to wait until the Porsche comes to a full stop before I demonstrate, but I’m confident you will enjoy yourself. Now read me the next chapter. _With voices_.”

“Felicity...”

“Read to me.”

“Fine, but this better be really worth it. Like, _broken canopy bed that we had to pay for with your credit card_ worth it.”

“Oh, my God, that was so embarrassing, Oliver. That guy knew _exactly_  how we broke the bed!”

“I’m pretty sure he _heard_  exactly how we broke the bed.”

“Oliver!”

“Deal or no deal, Felicity?”

“You drive a hard bargain, Oliver. Yes, I know, I heard it.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Oliver, and I will absolutely make it worth your while when we stop for the night.”

“How about we turn off right here, there’s a scenic lookout--”

“Read to me. It’s very sexy when you do that. _With voices.”_

 _“_ Felicity--”

“Read to me now, reward later.”

“It’s barely noon, Felicity, I really think a _down payment_  kind of thing would--”

“ _Read. To. Me._ ”

“ _Accio_  patience.”

-30-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: a couple of you delightful people asked about the broken bed, and then [I wrote a smutty little ficlet about it](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6498106/chapters/15254512). Heh.


	91. Prompt Response: small 4x17 post-ep ficlet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Swinging by to say thank you for everything you write because it is all wonderful and great and consistently brightens my day. And I'll also go ahead and belatedly add that I would read the bejeezus out of an Arrow/West Wing crossover. (Ugh, and now my head is turning "And if you think I don't miss you everyday" into an Olicity line, so oops.)
> 
> [ _And then this happened._ ]

 

Felicity hears the incoming text chime, but snuggles further under the covers before reaching for her phone. She’s tired and a little sore -- those purple heels are really comfortable for a typical work day, but they are emphatically  _not_  appropriate for outrunning killer bees and fighting giant...  _bee_  men. 

She groans a little as she flexes her toes in her fuzzy socks, soothing the ache, then rolls just far enough to reach the phone on her bedside table. She suspects she’s going to be hearing a _lot_  from Curtis the next few days. He’s already texted her at least a couple dozen times, using _very_  bad metaphors and far too many bee puns. It’s equal parts adorable and painful, since she can remember vividly her own long, strange days as the newbie on the team.

She’s not entirely sure how to so say, _Yay, I’m really happy you bonded with the team, but please stop talking about them because my heart is still very broken_ without making him feel bad, but she should probably try. 

But it’s not Curtis who texted -- it’s Oliver.

For the first time in a couple weeks, the thought of him is not _just_  a reminder of how heartsick she is; there’s a flutter of awareness, of curiosity underneath the pain tonight. Before the bee-man incident at Palmer Tech, they hadn’t seen each other in days, which had been both disorienting and the solitude she’d been craving to try to heal the worst of the cracks and bruises on her heart. But seeing him tonight was... not as bad as she might have expected. It hurt, of course, because her entire body wanted nothing more than to hurl itself at him, wrap him up in her arms and make sure he was okay. But she’d also been able to appreciate the fact that they’d all come, and to keep her wits about her instead of standing there brokenhearted.

So. Maybe she’s starting to heal a little?

Taking a deep breath, she clicks on his tiny, smiling face to open his message.

 _You never have to thank me, but I realized I didn’t thank you for saving my life_.

She blinks rapidly, unable to come up with a response. The phone chimes again, a new text from Oliver arriving:

_Thank you. Always._

The words make her ache with regret, with a sharp longing for this man that she can never have. This man who broke her heart and then vowed to love her always, with the honesty and adoration clear on his face. That ceremony had been torture, actual emotional torture – to make her put on that wedding dress and get ready in a cruel parody of what she’s wanted, of what she’s hoped for the past few months… She’s still not over it. She’s still angry with him for those vows that dangled everything she wanted in front of her now that she can’t have it.

But she still loves him far too much to ignore him. So she swipes a hand absently across her cheek, smearing away the tear tracks, and then types, _You never have to thank me, either, Oliver_.

She wants to say other things – things about how she’ll do anything for her family, and he’s family -- but she’s stuck in this stasis, and not at all sure whether that’s true anymore. He _feels_  like family, but she’s not sure he’s supposed to now that they’ve broken up.

Oliver responds quickly to her text:  _You’re wrong about that; there are a lot of things I should thank you for._ _And if you think I don’t miss you everyday..._

Felicity closes her eyes against his words, dropping her phone face down. That’s too much for her right now, it feels too much like trying to make amends, trying to persuade her to try again, and she’s still _far_ too hurt for that. When her phone chimes again, she considers ignoring it, but one thing that has been true about her since she was a small child is that she burns with curiosity.

There’s just no way she’ll be able to fall asleep with an unread text from Oliver on her phone. 

So she picks it up rather warily and reads, _I’m sorry. I’m not trying to push. I’m so glad you’re safe, Felicity. Good night_.

Even across town, even estranged, it seems that Oliver understands her in a way that’s a little scary. She just wishes he could understand _himself_  that well. But that can no longer be her problem. 

It takes her a few minutes to determine how to answer him, but once she figures it out, she hits send and flips off the light.

_I’m glad that Curtis helped keep you safe when I couldn’t. Good night, Oliver. Sleep well._

-30-


	92. Prompt Response: olicity, secretive brushing of fingertips against inner thighs in public spaces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lerayon asked: "Lucky" 13: Olicity
> 
> Ohhh, I like this! anything involving the secretive brushing of fingertips against inner thighs in public spaces

 

There’s a sparse but enthusiastic crowd gathered in on the high school football field in Cawker City, Iowa. Felicity drags Oliver closer, unable to school the grin on her face. Because _this_? Is Americana. Like, a legitimate, small-town Fourth of July celebration, with corn dogs and hot pretzels and a truly terrifying clown, and terrible versions of patriotic songs piped through a tinny sound system.

For someone who grew up in Vegas, with glittery, glowing, stylized recreations, this kind of night is authentic in a way that leaves her a little breathless.

Oliver is... less enthusiastic, but still a good sport as he spreads the small plaid blanket on the grass and offers her a hand to help her settle in. The blanket is warm beneath her, even if the ground is a bit lumpy. Oliver drops down beside her, moving closer so their thighs touch before he leans back slightly, palms propped a few inches behind him.

At first, as they await full darkness and the fireworks show, Felicity sits beside him, leaning slightly against his frame. It’s hard to keep her hands off of him now that he’s hers; now that she has permission (hell, she has an enthusiastic invitation) to touch him whenever she wants. _Wherever_  she wants.

Plus, they’d snuck a considerable amount of gin in to add to their fair-bought lemonades (which, Felicity had haughtily informed Oliver, made them  _London_  lemonades), and it’s really not her fault when her hands start to... wander a little. 

It’s nearly dark when Felicity half-turns to Oliver, who is _pretending_  to be fascinated by the mayor’s introductory speech about corn and the giant ball of twine and how good the Cawker City Cocks are going to be this season, even though there is a very pronounced smirk on his face when she presses a kiss to his shoulder.

When her hand lands just above his knee, on the warm skin peeking out below his cargo shorts, Oliver stills. She nuzzles his bicep, closing her eyes and just enjoying the feel of him against her, of being here with him, _together_. And, yes, okay, then her hand starts to drift, but it’s hardly _her_  fault that his thighs are incredibly muscular. They feel really god under her hands. 

Oliver’s breathing changes very slightly when her fingertips scratch across the inner seam of his shorts. “Felicity.”

“Mmmm?” She’s entirely too focused on walking her fingertips up the inside of his thigh to respond with words. She feels warm, happy, _buzzing_  with the need to pay Oliver the kind of attention he deserves. It’s basically dark anyway, and there are people around, but no one’s paying them much attention. As far as she can tell. So she drags her hand higher.

Except then he’s moving suddenly, sitting upright, his torso twisting towards her, and she yelps when he gets his arms around her and _lifts_. God, his strength shouldn’t be as much of a turn on as it is. Or so _distracting_  – before she can protest or even _understand_  what he’s doing, Oliver has resettled her between his legs, her back nestled against his chest and his arms wrapped low around her waist.

“Oh,” she says, blinking. Then she arches, leaning her head back on his shoulder, wriggling her ass backwards until he hisses with the contact.

“Felicity,”  he warns, warmth and a little bit of frustration in his tone. 

His scruff scratches against her cheek and she grins. “Spoilsport.”

Oliver huffs laugh, then drops his knees to the side, shifting to sit cross-legged with her basically in his lap, her sundress slipping up her thighs until she straightens her legs a bit. Felicity places her hands on his calves, drawing small, slow patterns on his skin, skimming through the hair. He’s half-hard against her back, but otherwise doesn’t react to her teasing.

Until the fireworks start.

Felicity tips her head back, grinning at the sunbursts in the sky. She’s tipsy and happy and in the arms of this man that she _loves_ , and the combination is enough to leave her feeling giddily patriotic. She opens her mouth to sing along with  _You’re a Grand Old Flag_ , and then Oliver’s warm palm is on her thigh, sliding up, and she gasps instead.

“Watch the fireworks,” he whispers in her ear, his fingers inching beneath her sundress, smoothing along the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.

But she can’t focus on the purple and red and blue sunbursts above them, not even the chest-rattling booms can distract her focus from Oliver’s hands on her body. She turns her face into his neck, pressing wet kisses against him, her fingers clutching at his knees. 

Oliver doesn’t stop, inching his fingers ever higher, until she is holding her breath, nipples hard, back arched.

And then he _stops_.

She may or may not bite his neck in retaliation.

But Oliver, that jerk, just laughs against her, flattening his palm high on the inside of her thigh. “There are kids here.”

The fireworks booming overhead make conversation hard, but she tilts her head back and sucks on his earlobe before countering, “You already have your hand under my skirt.”

The way he groans at that is immensely satisfying. Felicity shifts her legs, pressing her thighs together, trapping his hand, and the big arm still wrapped around her waist tightens, pulling her even closer. 

He turns his face down to hers and kisses her, messy and desperate. When he pulls back, he’s breathing hard. “I’m not going to make you come in front of 200 random Iowans, Felicity.”

She twists in his lap, pressing her body hard against his. “Then I guess we better leave them to their fireworks,” she breathes, and then she kisses him. With intent.

Fifteen seconds later, Oliver is on his feet, tugging Felicity up beside him, and holding the blanket strategically in front of him as they all but run towards the car.

Back at the hotel, he makes her see stars four times.

When he’s a sweaty, sated mess collapsed on top of her, she grins at the boring white ceiling of their room and sings Katy Perry until he laughs.

-30-


	93. Dialogue-Only: olicity, Oliver learns that Felicity faked it (at least one time).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @callistawolf said: kay i’m watching Parenthood today and now i want a fic where Oliver learns that Felicity faked it (at least one time).

 

“Wait,  _what_?”

“Oliver, I’m just saying--”

“That you _faked_  it?”

“We were kind of on the clock, Oliver, so--”

“On the _clock_?”

“--so I just figured that I could, you know... move things along.”

“ _Move things **along**_?”

“Oliver, _keep your voice down_! The bartender does _not_  need to know about our sex life. And also stop repeating everything I say!”

“I can’t believe you’re --  _why would you fake it_?”

“Hey, hey -- I’m not saying it was _bad_ , Oliver. It’s never bad with us! Earlier was perfectly nice, we just had somewhere to be.”

“Oh, _that’s_ better -- sex with me was so bland and _nice_  that you _faked orgasm_  so we would get to this stupid fucking party on time?”

“It’s your _inauguration party_ , Oliver! The press is here! We couldn’t show up all late and...  _disheveled_.”

“I’m not concerned about _appearances_ right now, Felicity. I cannot believe you faked it with me. This is a new low.”

“Hold on -- A _new_ low? Do you actually believe no one’sever faked it with you before?”

“No, Felicity. I’m just--”

“Because let me tell you, I’ve seen a lot of footage of Drunken Ollie, and you usually couldn’t even--”

“Please don’t finish that sentence.”

“--figure out how _doors_  worked. You mean to tell me you were able to locate a woman’s--”

“ _Felicity!”_

“Stop shouting!”

“I’ll stop shouting when you stop talking about my--  _past_.”

“Fine, but I’ve got news for you, Oliver, like half of your _past_  faked it, too.”

“I don’t care if every other woman I’ve ever slept with has--”

“ _That’s_  quite a list.”

“--faked orgasms with me. I care that _you_  did.”

“That’s... kind of sweet. I guess?”

“Felicity, I want honesty from you everywhere, including in bed.”

“Technically, we were in the shower, so...”

“Wait, you faked it in the _shower_?”

“In my defense, the _acoustics_ in thereare all– Not important. Why? What did you _think_ I meant?”

“I thought you meant the couch!”

“Ohhhhh, the _couch_. How could I fake that, Oliver? Your tongue was on my--”

“ _Felicity_.”

“I _never_  fake _that_. God, your mouth...”

“Yeah?”

“ _Yeah_. It’s one of my very favorite things about you.”

“Okay, we need to get out of here _right_  now.”

“We only been here an hour, and it’s your--”

“Inauguration party, yeah. I’m inaugurated, I gave the speech, and now I want dessert.”

“Okay, but I totally ate the rest of that ice cream in the freezer, but you should really know better than to--”

“I’m not talking about ice cream.”

“Oh. _Oh._ You meant...”

“Yeah.”

“ _Dessert._ ”

“Exactly.”

"But we should really stay a little longer. Veronica from the  _Starling Telegram_  is right over there, and she’s written some _really_  supportive--”

“We’re leaving.”

“Oliver!”

“You owe me at _least_  two orgasms, Felicity. I’m gonna make you come so hard you never even try to fake it with me again.”

“Oh, my God.”

“You’re gonna scream that, and you’re gonna _mean_ it.”

“Home. Now. Bed.”

-30-


	94. Prompt Response:  Season 4.5 + heat wave + UST

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @emilybetterthanyourickards made me do it. :) So, here, have something about our goobers and a heat wave (season 4.5). This got a little out of hand. LOL.

 

Day seventeen of rebuilding the lair is by far the hottest.

Which is saying something, since it t’s been stupid hot all stupid week. But the lair is just stifling this evening, the air thick and oppressive, draining all energy from Felicity’s body. 

“Stupid sun,” she grumbles.

Oliver huffs a laugh from beside her. “It’s more the fault of the aging infrastructure and inefficient a/c of the building,” he points out.

“And the sun,” Felicity adds stubbornly. She’s holding up a surprising heavy metal bar that Oliver is attempting to hammer back into shape as part of the server cage. Normally, she’d be enjoying the silver lining of this oppressive heat -- Oliver shrugged out of his shirt an hour ago, and is hammering away at the metal with a mallet, which just does stunningly attractive things to his entire body.

 _So_. Attractive.

And it’s been a small forever since Felicity has been _satisfied_ by anyone other than her, so her attention is very much caught by all of that rippling muscle on display.

Not that _that_  is a new state of affairs, but after months and months of touching him and having him whenever she wanted, she’s still adjusting to this new, Oliver-less reality. Well, not quite Oliver- _less_  -- more like Oliver-but-only-as-friends-and-definitely-no-fun-touching-because-broken-hearts.

Her heart is definitely still bruised and battered, but she’s not quite as certain about there being no hope for she and Oliver as she had been a few months ago. Rebuilding their base of operations side by side is giving them some time to rebuild themselves, too. She still isn’t sure whether they’ll be able to repair their romantic relationship, but a not-small part of her _definitely_ wants to throw him down on the dirty floor and have her way with him anyway.

Aside from the _super bad idea_ -ness of it all, she feels entirely too grungy to actually do that. There is sweat trickling down her back. And by _trickling_  she means _pouring down in actual sweaty rivulets to make the waistband of her shorts even damper and more unbearable_. “Stupid, stupid sun.”

She can hear the smile in Oliver’s voice when he says, “Felicity, it’s after 9. The sun’s been down a while.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “It was nearly 100 today,” she points out. “Because of the sun. And now we’re all sweaty.” She takes in a gulping, slightly panicky breath. “Not _we_  as in -- You know, just --  _I_ am all sweaty and I can see that you are also all sweaty, so I just mean it’s _too hot for logical thinking_. Not... anything else.”

Oliver pauses in his sexy hammering and watches her, breathing ever-so-slightly hard in a way that reminds her very strongly of when Oliver used to hold her up against a wall for sex. “You’re right.”

Felicity blinks. “About... logical thinking?”

When he grins at her, it is almost fully missing the sad, regretful undertone that’s been the steady state between them of late. She’d almost forgotten just how beautiful his genuine smile is. “About it being rather unbearable down here tonight.” He shifts his weight, just enough for her to recognize his nervousness. “We should take a break. Go get some ice cream at that place over on Hillcrest.”

Reflexively, Felicity glances down at herself. She’s a sweaty, sticky mess, and as much as ice cream sounds like _heaven_ , she is not going anywhere like this. “Give me 15 minutes,” she says, letting go of the now-not-quite-so-bent-out-of-shape metal frame. 

Oliver’s brow furrows. “Where are you--?”

“Shower!” she says. “In cool water.” She hums in happiness at the very idea as she heads to the small changing area and even smaller bathroom. She peels her sweat dampened clothes off, then jumps under the cool spray of water with a squeal. She turns her face up into the water and lets it ease her body temperature down a few degrees before she even reaches for the citrus-y body wash.

It’s not until she steps out of the shower and grimaces at her damp, abandoned clothing that she realizes her post-shower options are limited -- yoga pants and a sports bra, or the cute but skimpy red sundress she’d worn over here last week before changing into paint-appropriate old clothes. Oh, and she has a spare pair of panties, but no bra.

“Frak,” she mutters. But she still feels about a thousand degrees cooler and a million times better. So she pulls on the panties and sundress, tugs her damp hair into a messy knot, and tosses her sweaty clothing into a bag to bring home later. Before rejoining Oliver, she pauses at the mirror to make sure the red cotton is thick enough to wear bra-less. It...  _mostly_  is.

When she emerges from the back, Oliver is standing near the raised computer station wiping his torso down with a towel. The air freezes in her lungs and she traces the familiar lines of his body as he bends slightly to drop the towel and grab a plain grey t-shirt. He is just so beautiful; it’s really all she can do to keep the lustful moan from bursting out of her.

Oliver turns to face her, and when their gazes catch, there’s a long, hot moment of _awareness._ Then his eyes drop to her chest and on down her body, taking in the way her bright dress skims along her curves, and Felicity swears she can actually _feel_  his gaze on her skin. His hands tighten into fists and he clears his throat. “Ready?”

“Sure,” she answers, and when she moves towards him, his gaze drops to her chest again and she _knows_  he knows she’s not wearing a bra. It would be embarrassing except that she can tell he’s got it as bad for her right now as she does for him. The knowledge is liberating ( _Oh, yay, I’m not the only one who wants sex right now_!), but it also makes everything so much worse ( _oh, shit, I’m not the only one who wants sex right now_.) Because it’s _so tempting_  to just give in to what she already _knows_  is amazing sex. 

Oliver closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Then he meets her gaze and asks, “Shall we?” His voice is rough enough to make her shiver.

Felicity gives him a small, almost shy smile, and steps into the elevator. He joins her, and they stand a careful, reasonable distance apart. And then steal furtive glances at each other. She can feel the desire sizzling under her skin, making her jittery and nervous and so, _so_  aware of him. Of his nearness. Of what, exactly, he can do with that big, strong, graceful body of his.

When the elevator doors slide open, it breaks the unnerving tension, and Felicity takes a big gulp of air as she steps out into his former campaign office. They walk through the deserted office and out into the still-pretty-unfairly-hot night and turn left.

“How’s the mayor-ing going this week?” she asks.

Oliver sends her an amused glance. “Got any opinions on the merits of back-in angled parking?”

Felicity tilts her head. “Back-in angled parking? Is that... just... what it sounds like?”

“Basically,” he says. “Instead of parallel parking. It’s supposed to accommodate more cars, and would add up to eleven more spots near the Bay, but... It seems unnecessarily difficult.”

She grins at him. “Apparently  _you_  have opinions on the merits of back-in angled parking, which is not something I expected to learn about you tonight.”

He drifts a little closer on the sidewalk, bumping her arm with his. “I contain multitudes.”

There’s nothing sexual about the touch, but it is _casual_  in a way they haven’t been with each other in months. She glances away from him to hide her smile.

They reach the ice cream shop and Oliver holds the door for her. She steps inside and sighs happily as the cool, dry, perfectly air-conditioned air hits her skin. It takes her a few minutes to settle on what she wants, but once they order and pay, they accept their cones and retreat to a small table in the back of the shop. 

Felicity pushes herself up onto the stool and takes a big, long lick of her mint chocolate chip in a sugar cone with chocolate sprinkles. “Mmmm,” she hums happily. When she glances at Oliver, he’s watching her a little too attentively. She turns her attention back to her ice cream, licking the drips escaping down the sides before swirling her tongue around the scoop.

And, yeah, Oliver is _definitely_  staring. She gives him a Diggle-esque judgmental eyebrow, but he just raises his brow in response. Then he holds her gaze and very carefully uses the tip of his tongue to ease a chunk of chocolate free from his ice cream before sucking it into his mouth.

Felicity realizes she is practically drooling at him. Because, _damn_ , she remembers in excruciatingly vivid detail what it feels like to have Oliver’s talented mouth on her. Even _without_  that ridiculously erotic demonstration. Her body is flushed and hot again, despite her cold shower, and she’s pretty sure he can see her hard nipples through the material of her sundress.

When their gazes lock, the breath stutter to a stop in her lungs. She wants so badly to throw her ice cream aside and grab his face to pull him in for a thousand kisses. She wants so badly to drag him to the loft. 

She wants _him_.

 _So badly_.

But she’s just not sure yet; she’s not ready.

So she drops her gaze to her ice cream, staring at the unnaturally green treat as it begins to drip down her hand. “We should eat while we walk back,” she says quietly.

Oliver freezes for a long moment, then answers calmly, “Yeah, sure.”

They’re quiet as they emerge back into the overheated night. Felicity methodically eats her ice cream and then most of the cone as they stroll back. She wipes her sticky hands on a napkin and tosses the remnants in a trash can. Oliver finishes his just as they reach the office. 

They end up standing in front of the door, facing each other, and for a moment, Felicity is _sure_  that Oliver is going to kiss her. She knows it will be a mistake, but she doesn’t move because she also _wants_  this.

He doesn’t kiss her; he watches her with a carefully neutral expression. “We should probably call it a night,” he says.

Felicity nods slowly. It’s a good idea, but she doesn’t want to leave without explaining, without acknowledging this _thing_  building back up between them. “Oliver...” She doesn’t quite have the words, but she _tries_  for them.

“Felicity,” he says, the tips of his fingers trailing down her bicep. “It’s okay.”

She _wants_  to say they can try again. She _wants_  to ask him to be patient with her. She _wants_  to be over the things that split them up in the first place. But she’s just  _not_  yet. 

“It’s really okay, Felicity,” he says, as if he knows what she’s trying to say, as if he’s read her mind. Then he smiles at her, and she knows that he understands.

Something loosens in her chest, just a bit, and she breathes easier. “Okay,” she answers. Her car is at the end of the block, and she tilts her head in that direction. “I’m going to go, but, Oliver?”

“Yeah?” he asks, studying her for clues.

“We should do this again,” she says with a small smile. “The ice cream.”

The grin that breaks across his face _does_  things to her heart. “Definitely,” he answers quickly. “I’d really like that.”

Before she can overthink it, Felicity steps closer and rises up onto her tiptoes, her palm on his bicep for balance. She presses a kiss to his cheek, lingering just a bit too long to savor the familiar feel of his stubble against her lips. “Good night, Oliver,” she murmurs, then turns to go.

“Good night,” he answers belatedly, and when she glances over her shoulder, he’s watching her walk away with that goofy, lovestruck grin she remembers so well. 

She’s not ready; not yet. But... she might be soon.

-30-

_NOTE: Now I totally want to write the Sweet Shoppe Chronicles, where Oliver and Felicity continue to take ice cream breaks and more and more overtly tease each other as they grow more comfortable over the summer ,and as their reunion moves from hoped for to inevitable._


	95. Prompt-ish Response:  because of a dog-related tweet from @so-caffeinated earlier... S4.5 ficlet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because of a dog-related tweet from @so-caffeinated earlier. ;)

 

It’s Oliver’s offhand reference to breed-specific ordinances that starts the whole thing.

“Breed-specific _what_  now?” Felicity asks. And it’s entirely possible that she latches onto the topic because she needs distraction. All the time. Every day. If she doesn’t keep her brain occupied with _something_ ,she may lay down and sleep for a week. Rebuilding the lair only takes them so much time, and then she’s left with entirely too much time on her hands to drown in her regrets. 

And, God, these days does she have regrets.

So occasionally, she butts into Oliver’s mayoral business to pass the time. Like now. About breed-specific something-or-others. 

“You know,” he answers with a tired wave of his hand – turns out being the Mayor _and_  the Green Arrow was a little bit time-consuming, “banning aggressive dogs from the city.”

She tilts her head a bit, eyes narrowed, and asks, “Banning them by breed?” He gives a tired nod of assent before heading out to patrol.

Felicity promptly wanders over to her babies to research. Because just the idea of it seems wrong. This -- researching an issue for Oliver to handle at his day job -- feels kind of throwback-y like she’s playing at being his assistant again. Especially when she starts writing up a memo for him. 

But it’s worth it because once she digs in, there’s no science behind the push to ban specific breeds -- and she is a big fan of science. Not to put too fine a point on it, breed-specific bans are total crap. Which is actually the subject line of her email to Oliver.

**_Breed-specific bans are total crap_ **

_Oliver--_

_The attached memo argues this point in a better, more factual way, but can I just say that whoever is pushing breed discrimination on city council is unfamiliar with logic and science? The CDC came out against breed-discriminatory legislation after actually studying the issue. Also, bully breeds are freaking adorable with their big squishy faces, but there’s this weird public perception that they’re aggressive jerks, so they make up about 40% of the shelter population. Some dogs are by nature vicious or aggressive or un-trainable, but those qualities are inherent to the particular dog, not the breed. Speaking of which, “pit bull” isn’t even a BREED, which seems to have escaped the attention of the person who authored the proposed ordinance._

_You should do a shelter visit and push for an ordinance requiring tracking/removal of specific dangerous dogs._

& & & 

Three days later, Oliver requests her presence at his office to discuss it; because she’s still not working and because she still needs things to fill her time  _and_  because she feels strongly that science should prevail over fear, she agrees. Oliver is unfairly attractive in his grey slacks and pale blue shirt, sleeves rolled up to expose those strong, tan forearms. God, she misses him some days; misses _them_. 

During her worst moments, she wonders whether losing herself in him would be preferable to this long, sad, lonely summer of grief. She doesn’t trust him with her heart -- not yet, and maybe not ever again -- but she knows how his hands on her body can make her forget  _everything_.

She wants to forget. So badly.

Her ill-timed longing and regret distracts her enough that, before she realizes what’s happening, they are in Oliver’s car headed for the shelter for a site visit. So, really, what happens next is entirely his fault.

Because as soon as she walks into the shelter, her heart aches for the beautiful, furry faces in the cages. Oliver is speaking with the volunteers and the shelter director, working to line up support for his (or, more accurately, Felicity’s) counter-proposal on aggressive dogs, so Felicity wanders the aisles.

Some of the dogs bark frantically, the sounds echoing off the cinder block walls. Some go up on their hind legs and press their noses against the wire trying to get closer. Some cower in the far corners of their cages, watching her with big, scared eyes.

But Felicity is absolutely _not_  at the shelter to adopt a dog.

That’s not a thing that’s going to happen. She’s got too much going on, and too many other responsibilities to even _consider_  a pet.

Until she sees the short, stocky grey pit bull terrier with a wide, tongue-lolling smile and a splash of white fur down her chest. “Ohhhh,” Felicity says, stopping short in front of the cage because something about the dog’s big brown eyes pin her in place. The dog tips her head sideways, watching her curiously, before she pops to her feet and moves to the front of the cage, sniffing at Felicity.

“Oh, hello, there, gorgeous,” Felicity murmurs, offering the back of her hand. The dog snuffles it, then gives a lick, sitting down and wagging her tail as she watches Felicity. 

And it’s just that fast.

“Oh, no,” Felicity tells the dog, her tone apologetic. “This is... I mean, you are...” She shakes her head. “But I’m not here for a dog!”

“Who’s this?” Oliver asks, appearing at her side.

“I have no idea,” Felicity answers quickly, her hands flying into the air defensively, “but _definitely_  not my new dog. Just ignore those big brown eyes staring at me, because I am totally not getting a dog. Nope.”

Oliver is giving her that _you are so adorable_  face that still makes her stomach do flips, and between his amusement and the dog’s whole entire face full of cute, she has already lost the battle. But she refuses to admit that. 

“Okay,” Oliver says, amusement coloring his tone. “Why don’t we take her for a little walk while we’re here?”

“What? No!” Felicity shakes her head and even takes a step back, but Oliver is already waving over his new friend, the shelter director. Sheila gives them information on the dog – currently named Scarlet – as she grabs a leash. Felicity wrinkles her nose at the name and mutters, “That will have to change.” Oliver huffs a laugh beside her.

The sweet dog steps out into the corridor and presses her warm wet nose against Felicity’s knee before turning her head to Oliver. Oliver crouches down, offering his hand, and Scarlet gives it an inquisitive sniff and an affectionate lick before turning back to Felicity. Scarlet sits down, tail wagging, and gazes up at Felicity.

“Someone’s smitten,” Oliver observes, pushing gracefully to his feet. And then his warm, familiar hand lands on her back, and he’s guiding her and the dog at her heels towards the door. 

They emerge onto a small, grassy fenced in area, Felicity squinting in the bright sunlight, and the next half hour is the most effortless happiness she and Oliver have shared in months. They throw tennis balls for Scarlet, and scratch her ears, and rub her belly when she flops into the grass.

Eventually, Felicity and Oliver are sitting cross-legged in the grass, heedless of her flouncy skirt and his super-expensive pants, with a warm, affectionate dog snuggled between them, her big head on Felicity’s thigh. Felicity’s not sure, but she thinks she might be feeling at least a momentary kind of peace.

Her demons are quiet, allowing her to focus on the warm fur beneath her hands, and Oliver’s solid presence beside her.

“What do you think?” Oliver asks quietly.

“She’s amazing,” Felicity admits, heavy regret in her heart. “But I can’t.”

“Why not?” Oliver asks, running his hand soothingly along the dog’s side. “I haven’t heard you laugh this much in a long time.”

 _Havenrock_. 

The feeling, the bitter grief and guilt and self-hatred comes back, and she can’t answer. There are no words for the kinds of feelings she has about her decision over which people should die and which should live. There’s no way to explain that she doesn’t _deserve_  this simple kind of solace, not after what she’d chosen to do.

“Felicity,” Oliver’s voice is low and a little tentative, “I know it feels like the darkness is permanent, like you’ll never feel better--”

“I _shouldn’t_  ever feel better,” she insists, surprised by how unsteady her voice is. “It’s my fault that those people died.”

“It’s not,” Oliver insists, low and urgent. “Darhk launched the missiles. You did the best you could to keep people alive.”

Her throat aches. “My best wasn’t good enough,” she chokes out. And then the dog at her side shifts, sitting up between she and Oliver and licking Felicity’s arm. Surprised, Felicity gives Scarlet a makeshift hug, and the dog shifts, curling in Felicity’s lap. The action is surprisingly comforting, and Felicity finds herself curling over the dog, pressing her face to the warm fur as she cries. 

Oliver shifts, wrapping himself around both of them and murmuring soothing words as she tries to get herself together.

“I’m sorry,” she sniffles when she gets her breathing under control. “I didn’t mean--”

“You never have to apologize to me,” Oliver tells her. “Especially not for having such a kind heart.”

Felicity flushes, shaking her head. “Oliver, I don’t--”

“You do,” he interrupts. He’s still got his arm around her shoulders, and they’re closer than they’ve been in so long. He smiles at her, then glances down at Scarlet. “So what are you going to call her?”

“Veronica,” she answers, then tries to backtrack. “I mean, I _would_ call her that, if she were mine.” The dog pushes upright, tail wagging, and presses her wet nose to Felicity’s cheek. 

Oliver grins. “I think Veronica likes her new name.”

“This is a bad idea,” Felicity warns, even as Veronica gives an approving lick to her jaw. 

“It’s a great idea,” Oliver says. “She already loves you, Felicity.” He glances down, keeping his gaze on Veronica as he adds, “You’re very lovable.”

She swallows hard. “Oliver...”

“I think you and Veronica could be good for each other,” he tells her, pinning her with that urgent, caring gaze that still leaves her weak in the knees. And even leaving all that lies between she and Oliver aside, she recognizes that he’s not  _wrong_. Veronica needs a home, and Felicity needs _something_  to help her get through the worst of her own personal fallout. 

And maybe _she_ doesn’t deserve much, but Veronica deserves a home. She deserves love and care and treats and snuggles. Felicity thinks about weekly training sessions with Veronica, of daily walks in the park, of having a furry warm body in her bed when the nightmares come, and she really doesn’t see a downside. 

So she scratches Veronica’s ears and asks, “Do you want to come live with me, sweetheart?” Veronica just gives that wide, tongue-lolling smile, and Oliver laughs quietly beside them.

It’s Felicity’s decision, in the end, to adopt Veronica, but she will maintain for years and years that it’s Oliver’s fault. Especially when, months later, he starts complaining about sharing their bed with a dog.

-30-

_This is my reference pic for Veronica – meet[Greta, an adoptable dog in Boston](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.petfinder.com%2Fpetdetail%2F35382541&t=MjE0N2Q4N2MxNGE1MmYzN2E1ZjhhNWJkNmFjMTM5NWQyOTgwOGNmOCxtUkl0WEtybg%3D%3D)!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: [ASPCA](http://www.aspca.org/animal-cruelty/dog-fighting/breed-specific-legislation) and [Humane Society on breed-discriminatory legislation](http://www.humanesociety.org/issues/breed-specific-legislation/fact_sheets/breed-specific-legislation-no-basis-in-science.html).
> 
> And, yes, Felicity names her dog after Veronica Mars. :)


	96. Prompt Response: Season 5, olicity, giggles at the end of a long day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lesliesbknope: imagine your otp sitting down on the floor after a long day munching on greasy burgers and fries and onion rings and milkshakes at like two in the morning just giggling and happy and in love

 

The thing that really strikes Diggle is that Oliver doesn’t immediately _notice_  him when he steps off the elevator and heads into the lair.

Oliver, the paranoid, over-protective guardian, is sitting cross-legged on the training mats, _still_   _in his leather Arrow pants_ , eating a Big Belly burger. And he’s so intent on his tiny blonde girlfriend that he has yet to notice Dig.

Dig understands though, even if his reaction to Felicity is a _whole_  lot more about brotherly affection. He can’t deny the sight of her right now is arresting, especially when he thinks of how hard a year she’s had, of how much she’s been through. He will never forget her pale, drawn face when she was lying in the damn hospital bed, or the strain beneath her smiles as she struggled to adjust to life in a wheelchair. Maybe worst of all was the aftermath of Havenrock; even from afar, even catching sight of Felicity only through the occasional skype call, Diggle had _seen_ her unraveling, drowning in her grief and heartbreak and misplaced guilt.

So tonight, it does Diggle’s heart good to see her like this -- she’s down there on the mats, cross-legged, knee-to-knee with Oliver, her favorite bright pink dress demurely draped over her lap, holding a milkshake over her head to keep it out of Oliver’s reach.

And she’s giggling helplessly.

Because she knows and Oliver knows and Diggle knows that the only reason she’s able to keep that milkshake away from Oliver is because the man would never, ever take anything away from her that she wanted. Yet still, she playfully arches her arm _just_  a little bit farther, taunting him with something Dig can’t quite hear, but that makes Oliver sputter with his own laughter even as he shakes his head.

It’s a little moment, a _silly_  moment, but Diggle keeps his distance, not wanting to interrupt his friends. 

Even though they _still_  haven’t noticed his presence.

Felicity is giggling so hard that Dig is _sure_  she’s overtired and punchy and should be in bed instead of eating junk food after midnight, but he doesn’t _care_ , because it’s such a relief to see her happy again like this. They’ve all had a hell of a year, and Dig himself is still trying to find his feet. Lyla’s forgiven him for impulsively re-enlisting, and Sara has welcomed him back with only a few days’ skeptical reticence, but he’s still working on forgiving himself.

Things are tough, but getting better, and little moments like this – seeing two of the most important people in his life enjoying each other, seeing them take a few minutes to be genuinely happy -- it helps. 

And so even as Felicity’s careful grip on the milkshake sways, even as Oliver leans in to kiss her, burgers and fries pushed carelessly aside, Diggle quietly turns and heads for the door.

-30-

_Sorry, I couldn’t resist the image!_


	97. Ship of the Year:  olicity, organic touches, season 4.5

 

It happens so organically, so naturally that Oliver wouldn’t have noticed except for Felicity’s reaction.

They’ve been rebuilding the lair and their relationship the past few weeks, long, arduous nights trying to repair what’s broken and make a list of what needs to be replaced. Working so closely together, they’ve begun to touch each other again. Nothing like the easy, loving touches of last fall or the eager, insistent touches of nearly a year ago. But he still considers the incidental touch of fingertips when handing over tools, or the simple hand up when Felicity is squirming her way back out from under a server rack some kind of victory.

Oliver will never be immune to the touch of her skin against his, but he has become accustomed enough the past few weeks that when they slowly rise from their night’s work, stretching to get the kinks out before heading for the elevator, he may not have even noticed when Felicity reaches out and tucks her hand into the crook of his arm. She’s talking -- something about her preferred method of color-coding her cables -- and smiling up at him as they drift towards the elevator. 

It’s not until she lifts her free hand up, crossing it in front of her body to lay one hand over the other, leaning her shoulder into his body and all but hugging his arm that she stiffens in realization.

“Oh,” she says, arching her back away from him for a moment before she releases her hold on him. “I’m sorry, I--” She stops short, eyes wide.

Oliver stands there, uncertain, his arm still crooked to create a spot for her hands to tangle together and rest on his forearm the way they have hundreds of times before. “It’s okay,” he tells her. What he _wants_  to say is, _Don’t let me go_.

Felicity presses her lips together. “I didn’t mean to...” She trails off, waving her hand in the space between them. “Make things weird.”

“You didn’t,” he assures her, letting his arm drop, pressing his palm against his thigh. “It’s really fine, Felicity.”

She watches him for a long, uncertain moment, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Okay,” she says finally, heels clicking along the cement floor as she moves past him to summon the elevator.

They ride up in a silence that is not so much awkward as it is...  _loaded_.

Oliver manages to hold his tongue as they stare up at the digital display showing their progress, as they walk through the darkened office and out into the night, and even during the relatively short walk to the apartment building where they used to live together. 

It’s when she turns to him with an unsteady smile and says, “Good night,” that the words tumble out of him.

“Are you really done?” he asks quietly. Felicity’s brow furrows, and he’s clarifying before she can ask the question. “With me,” he says. “With _us_. It’s--” He stops, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s okay if you are, if I’ve-- If this is what we are now. Friends. I just thought... I thought maybe...”

She’s guarded as she watches him now, and he wonders if he’s ruined all of that progress they’ve made by pushing. She’s given him no real indication that she’ll ever be okay with his lies surrounding William and Central City, and he can’t even really blame her. But he has months and months and months of evidence that his love for her is stubbornly permanent. Tonight, the easy, familiar way she’d pulled her body to his -- it’s the first time he’s let himself wonder if maybe it’s the same for her. 

Maybe she still loves him.

“Oliver...” Felicity looks down, her hands twisting together.

“I’m not asking you to,” he shrugs, frustrated with his inability to express himself, “to _promise_ me anything. And I’ll never bring it up again if you don’t want me to, I just...” Oliver pauses, lets the words settle until he knows he’s saying exactly what he means. “I love you,” he says simply. “That will never, ever change. I’m not asking you to love me back, or to forgive me. I’m just asking if you’re really, truly _done_  with us.” His voice is low and strained, and as he watches her process his words, consider his request, he swears he’s not even breathing.

Felicity purses her lips, those bright blue eyes studying him carefully in the muted light spilling out from the building lobby. When the edge of those bright pink lips edge upwards, Oliver feels a warm surge of _hope_. 

She steps a few inches closer, her fingertips touching his forearm. “I don’t know,” she admits quietly. Then she lifts up onto her toes and presses a kiss to his cheek. She hovers for just a moment, before whispering, “Good night, Oliver.”

He’s too affected by her nearness to move as she drops back onto her sexy blue heels. When she steps away and reaches for the door, it’s all Oliver can do to manage a, “Good night.”

Felicity pauses, half inside the building and half out, the door held open in her grip. She looks back at him and says, “Ask me again later.”

-30-

 


	98. Ship of the Year: olicity, Felicity brings Veronica the dog to the lair, season 4.5

 

Felicity has Veronica four whole days before she decides to introduce her sweet, attentive pit mix to the lair.

Well, okay, _decides to introduce_ might imply that Felicity has control over that particular decision when the truth is, she does not. Because Veronica, for all her many, many attributes, has a bit of an oral fixation. 

(A turn of phrase which never fails to send a heat wave through Felicity’s body when she thinks of a certain salmon ladder-ing male in the vicinity with a much, _much_  more enjoyable kind of oral fixation. God, she misses having sex on the regular, particularly having sex with that certain salmon ladder-ing, orally fixated, _super extra talented_  male.)

No, Veronica likes to eat cardboard. Or at least chew it down into soggy little shreds. And she prefers  _laminated_  cardboard like, for instance, _all of Felicity’s favorite DVD cases_. And then she sits there and grins up at Felicity with that wide, adorable, tongue-lolling, _cardboard-scrap-covered_ grin, and Felicity can’t even stay made at her. 

But, yeah. It’s not so much a _choice_  to bring Veronica to Felicity’s night job (not that she currently has an actual day job). It’s more of a necessity, because she is _not_  going to let her adorable puppy-eyed dog ruin her DVD collection.

Head held high, Veronica at her heel, Felicity strides into the lair like it’s perfectly normal to bring a 45-pound dog in there.

Oliver is... not impressed. “No, no, no,” he says, though she will give him credit for not looking _quite_  as helplessly panicked as he did the first time Dig brought baby Sara into the lair. He’s such a weird control freak sometimes. “This is a bad idea, Felicity."

“Ah,” Felicity says, “that’s where you are wrong, Mr. Mayor! Plus,” she adds, coming to a stop just a bit inside of his personal space to tilt her head at him, “Veronica, here, was _really_  your idea in the first place. So.” When Oliver’s gaze slips down to the dog beside her, Felicity glances over to find Veronica sitting prettily with those irresistible brown eyes trained on Oliver. She’s even got that adorable head tilt/perked up ears thing going.

Really, Veronica is a much better flirt than Felicity will ever be.

And Oliver, who is a smooshy marshmallow of a man wrapped in this incredibly hard (perfectly hard, _so_ hard, so very, very, delightfully hard...) shell of ripped muscles, falls almost comically fast under Veronica’s spell. “Fine,” he grumbles, even as he offers his hand for a quick sniff-and-lick greeting, “she can stay. But  _only_  for tonight.”

“Great!” Felicity chirps, taking Veronica on a little orientation tour of the lair. She won’t let her off leash, not with so many dangerous, pointy things, and definitely not _yet_ , but she does let Veronica get comfortable there before bringing her back to the raised dais in the center. They’ve cleared away the broken lights, so it’s safe, but also dark. Veronica curls up on the floor at Felicity’s feet, keeping Felicity company when Oliver suits up and heads out.

And when he limps back in nearly two hours later with a twisted knee and an impressive array of bruises on his torso, Veronica follows Oliver to the med table and lays her head on his knee. He scratches her ears absently as Felicity rubs Arnica along his ribs.

When Felicity packs up to leave, Veronica’s leash looped around her wrist, she turns to find Oliver back in street clothes, watching her with a strange intensity. Felicity tilts her head. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he answers quickly. “Just -- Is it better?  With Veronica around, I mean.”

_Havenrock_. The familiar grief and shame and regret wells up, and she has to take a moment to keep herself under control. She feels a warm, wet nose pressing against her clenched fist and glances down to find Veronica nuzzling her, calming her. Felicity pets her soft fur, fingers scratching over velvety ears. 

She takes another moment, then meets Oliver’s gaze. “A little,” she says softly, and when she tries for a smile, there’s something genuine that has been missing. “She makes things...” Felicity pauses, “less lonely.”

“Good,” Oliver says, nodding. “Good.”

Felicity steps closer to him, laying her free hand along his bicep. “Thank you for making me go to the shelter,” she tells him. She squeezes and lets go, glancing down at Veronica. “C’mon, sweet girl.”

“Felicity,” Oliver says, just as they reach the elevator.

She turns back. “Yeah?”

“She’s welcome down here anytime,” he tells her.

Felicity grins at him, because they have their issues and their broken places, but Oliver has such a kind heart. “You’re a good man, Charlie Brown.”

His brows furrow as she turns away to step into the elevator with Veronica. “What?”

“Oh, my God, Oliver, it’s called _Google_!” As the elevator doors start to slide closed, she catches his gaze. “Google responsibly!” she adds. “I’ve got a monitoring program running.”

The quiet sound of his laugh reaches her just before the doors close. Felicity looks down at Veronica, who has become an important part of her life so very quickly. “Thanks, sweet girl.”

-30-


	99. Ship of the Year: olicity, Panic! at the State Dinner

Felicity stops short outside the high metal gate, forcing Oliver to a halt beside her. She stares, wide-eyed, at the bright white building beyond, hands twisting together.

“Felicity?” Oliver asks quietly, his gaze shifting between his date for the dinner and the security guard eyeing them suspiciously from the guard booth. “Everything okay?”

“Nope,” Felicity says. She adds a shake of her head and then attempts to take a step back. “Not okay. _Definitely_  the opposite of okay.”

“Felicity, it’s just a dinner--”

“At the _White Hous_ e!” she hisses, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper as if the building at issue wasn’t lit beautifully for the admiration of the arriving guests and the tourists out on Pennsylvania Avenue. “I don’t think I can go in there.”

Oliver grins at her helplessly, because everything about this woman beside him is so refreshing in its familiarity; living without her for nearly a year had been the cruelest punishment he’s ever faced. Now that they are back together, he savors every moment with her, every twist and turn of her nimble and unpredictable mind. “Why not?” he asks, ushering her to step aside and let the other arriving guests move past.

Felicity leans in to him, the soft fabric of her purple dress brushing against his arm as she glares up at him. “It’s a _State Dinner_ , Oliver! I shouldn’t be here! I’m going to talk my way into an international incident!”

“Felicity,” Oliver chuckles, tugging her a little closer with an arm low around her waist. “You are _not_  going to--”

“What if I mention our extra-legal trips to Nanda Parbat?” she whispers urgently. “I mean, we didn’t exactly get our passports stamped by the _League of Assassins_ , but now that I’m thinking about it, you _know_  it’s going to come tumbling out of my mouth. Probably in front of the president.” She stiffens further in his arms. “The _president_ , Oliver! He’s _right inside that building_!”

“Yes, the president _is_ inside the White House,” Oliver agrees, grinning down at her. “I thought you wanted to meet CJ Cregg?”

“Oh...” Felicity’s anxiety lessens some, and she glances wistfully at the White House. “I really do. And Doctor Bartlet, of course.” She grins up at Oliver. “Girl power!”

Oliver shifts to face her fully, taking her hands in his. “Felicity, we’re going to have dinner with the president, the first lady, some members of congress, and the delegations from two African countries, and you will be, _by far_ , the smartest person in the room. And,” he says, leaning in, letting his stubble scrape gently against her cheek before he presses a lingering kiss to her jawline, teasingly close to that spot he enjoys feasting on when he’s inside her, “the most beautiful.”

“Oliver,” she hums, her hands moving to his torso, her fingers digging into his ribcage through the layers of his dress shirt and tuxedo jacket. “That’s not true.”

He straightens slowly, catching and holding her gaze. “Absolute truth,” he counters with a small, proud smile. “Everything will be fine.” He quirks an eyebrow and lets his voice drop into a lower register. “Just hold onto me tightly.”

Before she can respond with more than a choked noise of amused protest, Oliver pulls back, taking her hand and tugging her towards the guard booth. “Mayor Oliver Queen and Felicity Smoak,” he announces, handing their invitations to the guard. 

[ _… probably TBC, because fun!_ …]

 

 


	100. Ship of the Year: olicity, random season 4.5 smut, RATED MATURE

 

Turns out, the simmering heat in Star City does not play nicely with Oliver’s Green Arrow’s leather. Felicity would make fun of him, except that the heat makes Oliver peel his jacket off on his way into the lair, and then tug his technical tank top right off after it, which puts his hot, sweaty, amazing torso on a collision course with her, and sends her brain on vacation. Who can blame her when faced with _all of that_  if she hooks her fingers in the waistband of those tight leather pants and reels him in?

He makes a surprised noise, but she surges up onto her toes and kisses him before he can get any words out.

And, really, it’s a wonder this hasn’t happened sooner, but, then, they are both incredibly stubborn people.

Those big hands clutch at her back, and Felicity whines into his mouth, into their hot, wet, desperate kiss. He breaks away, panting, to leave a trail of nips and licks and soft, sweet kisses down her throat, while she lets her fingers do the walking along all that hard, sweaty skin she’s missed so much.

“We should talk,” he mutters against her breast, but the feel of his fingers inching up the inside of her thigh tell a different story. “Talk first,” he clarifies, even as he unclasps her bra and tugs it out of his way.

Felicity runs her tongue along his collarbone and yanks on the fly of his Arrow pants. “Later,” she manages. “All the talking later.”

“Felici--”

She cuts off his half-hearted protest with a kiss, tugging his lower lip between her teeth, smoothing her tongue against his until he’s got her panties around her ankles and his fingers on her clit.

She’s right there with him, easing onto the conference table and using her toes to shove his pants down, because her hands are occupied using his broad shoulders for leverage and also digging little crescent shapes into that sensitive spot on his lower back until he jerks against her. She shifts backwards and Oliver climbs up after her, unwilling to stop kissing her for even a second.

They might not be ready for this; they might not be all the way healed from the way they cracked and stressed their relationship over the past six months, but it has been unbearably hot for days. The hungry looks he’s been shooting her when she arrives in ever skimpier sundresses have not escaped her notice. His shirtless workouts have increased in frequency and intensity, leaving her buzzing with unsatisfied lust. But most importantly, this has always been inevitable, and maybe they’re moving up the timetable, but when Felicity’s got her mouth on his salty, sweaty skin and his fingers inside of her urging her higher, she doesn’t  _care_  about taking it slow.

“Now,” she says, wrapping her fingers around his hard cock and squeezing, just to get him to groan into her neck. 

“Bossy,” he murmurs, then nips that spot, _that_  spot, the place he loves to tease, just below her left ear, where she swears she had a hickey the _entire_  time they spent in Europe last summer. 

“You love it,” she tells him with a little half-laugh, half-gasp, because he’s _right there_  and about to slide inside, and it’s been so long and, God, she has missed him. She has missed his heart and this intimacy and the way he’s learned to touch her with an confident reverence that leaves her shaking.

“I do,” Oliver whispers into her ear as he pushes into her. “I do love it. I love you.”

Felicity arches against him, her knees against his rib cage, her body blanketed by his, and she grins up at the ceiling. “I love you, too.”

His arms tighten around her, one sliding beneath her back to hold her as closely as possible. “Felicity,” he says, and she can hear all of the apologies he wants to give her. 

But right now, in this moment, she doesn’t need anything but the feel of him in her arms and the joy he brings her. They will talk later, but right now, she needs to feel him. 

So she runs a soothing hand down his back, along his spine until he shivers against her. “Good talk,” she tells him, turning her face towards his even as he shifts, lifting his head so he can meet her gaze. Felicity pats that perfect ass of his and gives him her best smile. “Now _move_.”

-30-

 


	101. Ship of the Year: olicity, QUEEN, SMOAK MARRY AT CITY HALL

 

**QUEEN, SMOAK MARRY AT CITY HALL**

STAR CITY– In an unexpected move Wednesday afternoon, Mayor Oliver Queen and on-again, off-again girlfriend Felicity Smoak married in a civil ceremony at City Hall. The couple, who have not publicly acknowledged their relationship since their decision to break off their engagement last spring, tied the knot with fewer than a dozen people in attendance.

The bride wore a strapless, knee-length Monique Lhuillier gown of ivory lace over silk, with bright blue Jimmy Choo heeled sandals, while the groom chose a tailored Armani suit in charcoal grey. The new Mrs. Smoak-Queen carried a bouquet of sunflowers, and was seen wearing a large, square-cut diamond that closely resembles the Queen family heirloom she was given last year by Mayor Queen to mark their first engagement. 

As word spread among the Mayor’s staff and then across social media sites, a small crowd gathered outside City Hall. When questioned, members of the crowd said they were just hoping for a glimpse of the city’s celebrity couple.

“I love them!” explained Natasha Sherwin, 27, of the Glades. “I really didn’t think I could ever support someone named Queen after their involvement in the Undertaking, but the mayor has done some real good.”

“Felicity Smoak is amazing,” added Serena Lake, 39, of Star City. “I work at Palmer Tech, and you’d never expect the CEO to apologize for bumping into you in the kitchen, but she did. And then she fixed my phone for me. I’m glad she’s happy. She’s been through a lot.”

The raucous support for the newly married Smoak-Queen duo seemed to catch them off guard when they exited the small courtroom hand in hand to spontaneous cheers from the crowd. The couple paused to wave and pose for a few pictures on the steps of City Hall; Mayor Queen, in particular, seemed unable to do anything besides smile at his new wife. 

Sherwin summed up the fascination of the gathered crowd when she pressed a hand to her heart and said, “Do you see the way he looks at her? Relationship goals.”

The happily married Smoak-Queens declined comment on their way out of City Hall; it is unknown whether they will host a formal reception, but the groom’s sister, Thea Queen, confirmed that the duo is planning a delayed honeymoon over the holidays.

“We’re all happy,” Ms. Queen stated. “Because they finally made it!”

-30-


	102. Prompt Response: olicity, season 4.5, Oliver is a PITA to watch Olympics-level archery with

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, this fluffy, Olympics-related nonsense [is entirely @katelinnea’s fault](http://machawicket.tumblr.com/post/148668078542/as-you-can-see-this-fluffy-olympics-related). ;)

 

Felicity huffs a sigh -- a slightly _exaggerated_  sigh -- and edges the TV volume up a bit more, hoping to drown out the stream of indignant commentary. Beside her on the couch, Oliver doesn’t appear to notice. He’s consumed by feelings of superiority over _actual Olympic athletes_ and clearly feels honor-bound to talk incessantly about how wrong their gear and their stance and their coaching and their points system is, and Felicity is _over it_.

She thought they could use a little low-stress bonding time, now that the two of them  _are_ Team Arrow while also still figuring out how to be around each other again. And while Oliver and Felicity normally have opposite opinions of sports, every two years, Felicity is _all in_  for the Olympics – fencing or curling or those strange skiing-and-shooting combinations or crazy indoor speed racing on bikes? The more unusual the sport the better, and Felicity falls completely under the Olympics’ spell for two glorious weeks, learning about bobsledding or synchronized diving in absurd detail. 

What could be more fun than sharing that enthusiasm with Oliver, who’s predisposed to appreciate sports?

Turns out, nearly _anything_  would be more fun than this. Fed up, she elbows Oliver and he yelps -- like the big faking faker he is -- and turns wide eyes her way. “What the hell, Felicity?”

“I invited you into my home for an evening of patriotic sports-watching, and you _won’t_ _shut up_  about archery!”

Oliver blinks at her, eyebrows raised high in disbelief. “They’re all wearing absurd amounts of gear and taking their sweet time to set up a shot,” he complains, gesturing at the TV screen, “and I’m supposed to be _impressed_  when they can’t even hit a bullseye?”

“You don’t have to be impressed,” Felicity retorts, coming _really_  close to throwing popcorn at him in irritation, “but you _do_  have to stop criticizing the athletes and the announcers.”

“I trained on the island by hitting _knots in trees_ while running through a forest,” he points out. Smugly. “I know a _little bit_  about archery.” God, he’s so _smug_  and _smirky_  about it.

Some of her irritation edges a little closer to lust. It’s wrong and bad, but she finds Smug, Smirking Oliver basically irresistible. In her defense, the _majority_  of the times she’s seen him wear that particular preening, self-satisfied look, he’s just made her come. Usually more than once. So. She’s got some powerful positive associations.

Which makes it hard to stay _too_ irritated with him.

“Well,” she answers, belatedly and more than a little lamely, “these athletes aren’t running an archery obstacle course, so _shush_.”

Oliver mutters something, settling deeper into the couch with his arms crossed over his chest. _Sulking_. It would be amusing if it weren’t also deeply annoying. Because for whatever reason, he will not _let this go_.

“What’d you say?” she demands, eyes narrowed, popcorn at the ready.

“ _Athletes_ ,” he repeat louder this time, “would be able to make that shot on the run, under fire--”

“Oh, my God,” Felicity mutters, but he ignores her and keeps talking.

“--in the rain, through smoky conditions -- whatever.” He gestures to the scoreboard in the corner of the screen. “This point system is ludicrous.”

“What would you prefer,” she snarks back, “ten points for hitting the thigh of a bad guy, twenty points for a shoulder shot?”

He holds her gaze serenely. “I’m just saying that it takes more talent to hit a moving target.”

“So you could beat any one of these _Olympic-class archers_?” she challenges.

Oliver lifts his chin, stubborn and prideful. “Yes.” Off her skeptical look he tips his head towards the TV and adds, “and I wouldn’t need a stabilizer or a finger tab.”

“And I suppose _you_ could do it while parkouring around a forest?” 

“Yes,” he answers immediately, that sexy arched eyebrow of his quirking even further, and how is that so hot and so smug at the same time? “I can definitely _do it_  while parkouring.”

His slight emphasis on _do it_ , wipes whatever she’d been about to say out of her mind. Because her mind is now much more cheerfully occupied remembering a few times that Oliver’s parkouring around in the lair turned, uh... into a different type of physical exertion.

And, _God_ , why is she so focused on sex right now? That’s dangerous territory, considering Oliver is inches away from her on this perfectly sturdy couch, oozing sexy charm in that effortless way of his. No matter how well they’re getting along now, they’re not _there_  yet.

_Probably_. So she really needs to focus on something other than Oliver and/or sex.

Felicity whips her gaze back to the TV to find --  _mercifully_  -- that the archery competition is over and-- “Men’s gymnastics!” she squeals, sitting up straighter. “Yes, now _this_  is my kind of athlete!”

She can practically _feel_  Oliver’s glower. “Seriously? _Gymnastics_? You want to watch men’s gymnastics?”

“God, yes,” Felicity answers, admiring the buff, Oliver-esque physiques on display already. These gymnasts have some _incredible_  arms. Which, honestly, won’t exactly _help_  her libido, but at least she’ll enjoy herself. She appreciates their athleticism. Obviously.

As she watches a Brazilian athlete hurl himself at the vault and then go flipping and twirling through the air, her eyes light up and she turns to Oliver with a grin. “I mean, gymnastics is basically just _fancy parkour_  if you think about it!”

Oliver’s mouth drops open. “ _What_?”

“Look!” she insists, gesturing at the screen. “They’re leaping over objects in front of them as they’re running, and spinning around _pipe-like objects,_ and _dangling prettily_  from tall things!” Her grin is unstoppable now. “This is basically a Green Arrow workout with just a _bit_  more flipping around!” She pauses, tilting her head as she considers the comparison. “And _slightly_  tighter pants.”

And Oliver sputters. He actually _sputters_  or a few moments. “That is-- That’s  _not--_  Felicity!”

“It’s okay,” she consoles him with a pat on his broad strong shoulder, still grinning, “I bet you would be an _excellent_  gymnast, Oliver. You practically are already!”

They make it maybe halfway through the gymnastics coverage – with Oliver alternating between complaining that she could _possibly_  compare his super-serious crime-fighting parkour with guys performing a floor routine, and dismissively proclaiming that he could _totally_  do that – before they break. Felicity is in the middle of expressing her appreciation for a certain Italian gymnast’s physique when Oliver decides to demonstrate his athleticism. In the _best_ , most convincing way.

And, God, Felicity is _fully_  persuaded. Also sated. 

Breathless and sprawled beneath him on the couch, Felicity kisses his shoulder and grins. “I miss the 10-point system,” she says. “Because I don’t think 15.8 with no deductions really gets my appreciation across.” 

Oliver huffs a laugh, his big, _pleasingly athletic_ frame leaning the perfect amount of weight on her. “I have no idea what 15.8 means,” he admits, his breath puffing against her collarbone.

“Not important.” Felicity shrugs beneath him, still trying to catch her breath. “You earned  _such_ a good execution score,” she hums. “Yay, Olympics!”

-30-


	103. First/Last Kiss:  Angsty Arrow ficlet (MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ahoy: **MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH** Oliver  & Felicity’s first and last kiss. Uh… you know, angst warning.

Their last kiss is full of even more regret and heartbreak than their first. But this time, there’s no hospital hallway, no vague antiseptic scent, no unexplored fantasies of what could’ve been if only they’d tried. 

Instead, Felicity drops to her knees, the pavement scraping her skin as she shifts closer to him. She barely notices Dig beside her, beside _Oliver_ , trying desperately to stem the flow of blood from Oliver’s wounds.

Felicity’s hands are shaking, fluttering above the gaping, irreparable hole in his chest before she reaches for the hood, easing it back and crumpling under his head as a makeshift pillow. She tugs his mask free and leans closer, ignoring the sharp scent of copper in the air.

“Felicity,” he manages, lifting one weak hand up and resting it on her shoulder. He exerts the smallest bit of pressure, and she shifts closer, hovering inches away from his face. “’M sorry.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head, trying to smile down at him through her tears. “No, you-- you’re perfect. You did it, Oliver. He’s dead and we’re-- we’re safe now. So you just hold on.” Her voice is high and shaky; she’s always been a bad liar when it comes to the big stuff.

Oliver knows, anyway. They both know there’s no ambulance on the way, and even if there were, he’s losing blood way, way too fast. His breaths are too shallow, and there’s a horrible, wet, rattling kind of sound with each inhale. Still, she shakes her head, refusing this awful reality. “No,” she repeats. “ _No_.” 

“Sorry,” he says. His fingers squeeze her arm weakly, then fall away. He watches her with those eyes that see everything about her and accept her anyway. “I love you.”

“You can tell me again later,” she answers, and she’s suddenly _furious_  at him. How dare he even _think_  about dying here, tonight, and leaving her alone? But then, the alone part has been her choice this whole time. _She’s_  the one who called their relationship off; _she’s_  the one who refused to entertain the possibility that Oliver was actually sorry and had grown; _she’s_  the one who’s spent nearly _two whole years_  telling herself she’s over him, all the while loving him fiercely and irreversibly.

 _All that wasted time, and for what_? To watch the love of her life die in front of her? “It’s not fair.” She doesn’t mean to say it aloud, but, _God_ , nothing about this is fair. Oliver is the hero of the story -- he can’t die before his happily ever after.

Oliver is trying to smile up at her, then he gasps in pain and looks to Dig, who’s pressing _hard_  on Oliver’s wound. “John,” Oliver rasps. “Take care of her.”

Dig gives his friend a solemn nod even as Felicity punches Oliver lightly on the shoulder. “I don’t need that,” she protests stubbornly, “because you’re going to be fine, because you _have_ to be fine, because you and I have unfinished business, mister.” She’s crying now, tears blurring her vision before running down her cheeks.

Oliver shifts his arm and his palm lands warm on her thigh. He squeezes and smiles at her, and he’s _so pale_ and there’s barely any strength in his grip. “I love you,” he repeats. “Always.”

Her shaking hands cup his cheeks and she leans in, kissing him fiercely. There’s blood on his lip, but he kisses her back just as desperately. It’s a kiss filled with heartbreak and regret and so much sorrow; it’s a goodbye kiss.

She eases back, “I _love_ you, Oliver Queen,” she tells him, because she can’t deny it any longer. He’s fading, and there’s nothing she and John can do to stop it, and this is going to be the worst thing that ever happens to her. She remembers that awful month, the bloody sword, the deep, gnawing loss of what they could’ve been.

This? This is worse. This will be unbearable. Because now she _knows_  how good they were together. She _knows_  that she’s the reason they never married, or had kids, or even just had each other the last two years. She _knows_  what it means to be deeply, thoroughly loved by this man, and she will never have that again if he dies. 

 _When_  he dies.

She will never recover, but that doesn’t matter right now.

The love of her life, this brave man who’s fought through hardship and pain and torture, he’s scared and he’s in pain and he’s _dying._ She needs to be strong, to be here, to be present for this. She needs to keep him calm, to reassure him, and to make absolutely sure he knows he is _beloved_. 

She needs to be his always, for just a little bit longer. 

He blinks, and it’s like a struggle for him to open his eyes again. Panicking, she leans closer. “Oliver?”

His gaze is hazy, but lands on her unerringly. “Love you,” he whispers. “Felicity.”

“I love you,” she tells him. “It’s okay, hon. You can close your eyes. You’re so strong, it’s okay to rest now.” Her words are a garbled, tear-soaked mess, but as long as she can feel his breath against her face, she keeps talking; in the end, she just repeats, “I love you, Oliver. I love you so much. I will _always_  love you.”

When Oliver’s chest stills, Felicity is left with the mask of a dead hero and a lifetime of regret.

-30-


	104. Prompt Response: olicity, secret dating/Oliver has to sneak out of Felicity's apartment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> effie214 asked: #can you imagine thea coming by felicity's with a surprise brunch#and oliver having to parkour down the side of the building in his boxer-briefs#*pause to relish that mental image* Why are you the way you are? And I'm ready to negotiate terms for you to write this.
> 
> Haha, both you and @geneeste pointed out that I JUST reblogged these secret dating ideas. UGH, fine, I guess I’m doing this. ;) Something short. (ETA: hahaha, I cannot write short ever ever ever, whatever!)

 

The loud pounding on the door startles Felicity so badly that she jumps. Which wouldn’t ordinarily be a problem, except that Oliver is currently beneath the sheets and between her legs, diligently applying his particular oral talents to her pleasure, so when she jerks beneath him, he gives a muffled, “ _Ow_ ,” before easing back.

Dammit.

But she barely notices, because there’s the sound of a key in the lock, the door hinges squeaking as the door opens, and then a very familiar voice shouts, “Felicity, come on, I brought coffee _and_  champagne for mimosas. Get your cute butt out here.”

Felicity lets out a high-pitched _eep_  and starts shoving Oliver away, further down the bed, under the covers. He’s grumbling when he emerges at the end of the bed, standing up stark naked -- hands on hips, half-hard, and _very_  cranky.

“Are you kidding me?” he hisses, swiping a hand across his mouth before he rubs the side of his head where she’d kind of kneed him a little bit. Oops. “Is that my _sister_?”

“Yes,” Felicity answers, nearly toppling out of the bed as she snags her discarded pajama top. “And she’s got a key and _no_ compunction about barging in here to wake me up, so you have to--”

“Are you not awake yet?” Thea demands, her footsteps and her voice growing louder. “It’s nearly eleven!”

Wide-eyed, Felicity yanks her pajama top over her head. When she gets it on, she pauses, confused, because _where did Oliver just go_? Then Thea knocks twice on her bedroom door and opens it, and Felicity tugs the sheets up to cover her naked lower half.

“Thea!” she squeaks. “Hi, hey, uh -- did I hear something about mimosas?”

Thea pauses in the doorway, eyes narrowed with suspicion as she scans the interior of Felicity’s room. Felicity’s heart hammers in her chest, because --  _seriously, where the frak is Oliver hiding_? 

“Yeah,” Thea answers belatedly, arms crossed. “And coffee. What’s going on?”

“What? Nothing.” Felicity can hear the strange thread of high-pitched panic in her voice, but can’t quite get it under control. Especially when a very warm, very familiar palm slips over the edge of the mattress and lands on her naked thigh. “Oh!” Is he seriously hiding _under the bed_?

“You’re acting weird,” Thea observes. 

“Too much wine last night,” Felicity says. “Super weird dreams. Just a little -- uh,  _weird_ because of that.”

“Okay.” It’s clear Thea doesn’t fully buy it, but thankfully she doesn’t press. “I’ll make mimosas, which means you’ve got about two minutes before I start on the pastries. I won’t save any for you.”

“Mean!” Felicity protests, then lists a little to the side when Oliver’s fingers inch higher. “I mean, that’s _totally_  fair. You go do that and I’ll just... get... up.”

Thea furrows her brow, but _thankfully_  does not stay to argue. “Weirdo,” she mutters, leaving the door open as she heads back down the hallway toward the kitchen. 

Felicity lets out a relieved breath and hurls the blankets aside, clamping down on Oliver’s wandering hand just before he reaches the promised land. “Hey,” she whispers, leaning over to look over the edge of the bed. “You’re gonna get us caught.”

Oliver is naked and smirking on her floor, and the _last_ thing she wants right now is mimosas and pastries with Thea. Because -- Oliver, naked, on her floor. “I’m not the one insisting on keeping us a secret,” he points out, and she’s momentarily distracted by the incredible sight of his abs contracting one by one as he sits up. Goddamn. “You can’t possibly expect me to hide out in your bedroom while you're having brunch with my sister.”

“No, you need to go out the window,” Felicity answers, slipping past him to grab fresh panties out of her bureau. Then she spies her pajama pants on the floor, _clearly_  in plain sight from where Thea’d been standing. Felicity groans and grabs her older, comfier, matryoshka doll PJs and steps into them. 

When she turns, Oliver’s wearing jeans and holding his shirt. It’s such a delicious sight she misses the mulish look on his face. “I’m not scaling down the outside of your apartment building because you’re not ready to tell my sister we’re together.”

“Oliver, _please_ ,” Felicity steps closer, wrapping her arms around him and leaning her chin on his sternum. “We can tell her later today if you feel that strongly about it. But I don’t want to tell her like _this_.” She digs her fingers into the skin of his back. “Let’s not traumatize her.”

When he sighs, she knows she’s won, and she presses kisses into his chest, nuzzling the light dusting of hair until he groans. “You need to stop that. I’m not climbing out of your window with an erection.”

“Thank you,” she says, hugging him tightly for a moment before stepping back. She watches appreciatively as he tugs his shirt on.

“Can’t believe I’m doing this,” he mutters as he lifts her window and shoots her a baleful look.

“You’re the _Arrow_ , Oliver, you can parkour down the fire escape no problem.”

“Not really the point,” he says. 

She hurries to his side, tugging him around and kissing him sweetly. “Thank you for humoring me.”

He leans in, kisses her a little harder, a little dirtier. “I’ll see you soon.”

Felicity waits for him to scamper down the side of the building before closing the window. She joins Thea in the kitchen. “Hi! Good morning. Sorry I was weird before, you know I’m preverbal without coffee.” She accepts the warm to-go cup full of the delicious nectar and takes a sip with a happy hum.

Thea pours them each a generous helping of mimosa and settles onto the stool at the counter. “So,” she asks innocently, “whose pants were those on your floor?”

Felicity chokes, nearly spitting her coffee out. She coughs and wheezes for a few moments, until she manages a gravely, “What?”

“Mens’ jeans,” Thea answers with a smug grin, “on your floor. Spill, Smoak.”

There’s a knock on her door, and Felicity practically races away from this unexpected interrogation. “Oh! Door. Hold that thought!” _Or don’t_. She reaches the door and yanks it open without looking, which is just a _major_  tactical error.

Because standing there looking determined and gorgeous and slightly rumpled is Oliver. “Good morning,” he says, stepping forward. He looks past her and says, “Hey, Thea.”

“Hey, Oliver,” Thea answers, sounding not terribly surprised to see her brother at Felicity’s door.

“Oliver, what are--?” Felicity manages, but his hand snake around her waist, and then he’s leaning in and kissing her. She kisses him back, because _obviously_. 

And then he straightens and steps past her, nodding at his sister as he heads for Felicity’s bedroom. Thea, who’s snickering outright, gives her brother a little wave. “I’m grossed out and overjoyed at the same time,” she calls after him.

Felicity is still standing dumbly beside the open door when Oliver comes strolling back out of her bedroom. He holds up his leather billfold. “Forgot my wallet,” he announces, moving back to her side. “Oh,” he adds, turning to Thea. “Thea, Felicity and I are together. You’re not traumatized, right?”

“Nope, not traumatized,” Thea agrees with a grin. “Now get out of here and let me enjoy a boozy brunch with your girlfriend.”

Oliver nods. “Sure.” Then he leans down and kisses Felicity some more. “I’ll see you later.”

Felicity blinks at him as he straightens, smirks down at her, and then turns to leave. “Bye,” she answers belatedly. When the door closes behind him, she moves slowly back towards Thea. “What just happened?”

“My idiot brother left you here to answer _all_  of my questions,” Thea answers immediately, topping off Felicity’s mimosa and handing it back to her. “You’re gonna need this.”

“Oh, frak.”

-30-


	105. GIF Response:  olicity cat burglar AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [This beautiful gifset](http://machawicket.tumblr.com/post/152710973947/machawicket-felicitys-oliver-drama) spun my brain into AU territory. :)

 

 

It doesn’t go sideways until right at the end. 

Oliver has the stolen jewelry tucked away inside his jacket, to be returned to his client, and he’s halfway to the door when he hears movement on the stairs.  The stairs that reach the main floor about four feet away from the door, blocking Oliver’s planned exit route. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes, changing tactics immediately. These lofts are big and open, leaving _very_  little cover. He moves as quietly as possibly towards the windows, blending into the darkness and the heavy drapes pulled partway across the door that opens onto the balcony. 

Holding still, Oliver watches Brad Dennet, minor crime lord and all around bad person, descend the stairs and shuffle into the open kitchen area. Dennet had shaken down Oliver’s client for protection money for years until Claudia, a brothel owner, had fallen behind. Dennet escalated his threats, eventually suggesting Claudia could “work off” her debts or hand over her trademark ruby necklace. She handed Dennet the gem and promptly called Oliver.

Because relieving assholes of the spoils of their immorality and violence is a pretty satisfying use of Oliver’s skills. 

When Dennet opens his refrigerator and leans down, Oliver makes his decision. Easing the balcony door open, he slips out of the loft and moves to the end of the balcony, where the shadows will help conceal his presence. It’s late, nearly 3 a.m., and Starling is mostly asleep. 

He considers his options – which are, basically, climb up or climb down. He’s on the sixth floor, and the building is eight stories high. Also, climbing up is easier and faster than climbing down. So he balances on the railing and leaps up, grabbing the bottom of the balcony above. It takes some wriggling and some brute upper body strength, but he gets a toehold, shimmies up, and then hoists himself over the railing. 

“Eeeep!”

Oliver pauses, straightens up, and meets the wide-eyed gaze of the tiny blonde standing ten feet from him. She’s in glasses, has a ridiculous green blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and despite the fact that a strange man just leapt onto her balcony, she’s not screaming. “Hi,” he says, lamely.

“Are you supposed to be Spider-Man?” she asks, and the question is so odd, so unexpected, that Oliver nearly laughs in surprise. Before he can respond, she’s talking some more, the words pouring out in a torrent. “I think he’s more into body hugging fibers like spandex, not that your jacket isn’t--" She makes an incomprehensible movement with her hands and shakes her head ever-so-slightly– “But Spider-Man isn’t into the leather, I don’t think. And you are into it.” She takes a step forward, lifting one imploring hand as if suddenly worrying she may have offended him. “Not-- Not _into_  it in that kind of way. I just mean-- I assume you like it, since you choose leather to wear when you’re, like, scaling buildings and jumping onto people’s balconies, and why is that again?”

Silence rings between them for a long moment, as Oliver tries to catch up. “What?”

Her brow is doing a strange crinkly thing as she studies him more closely, but mostly Oliver notices that she is beautiful. “Why are you on my balcony?”

“Oh.” Oliver nods, pressing his lips together. It’s a valid question. A really good question. “Um...” She tilts her head, lips pursing just a bit as she watches him. “Wrong balcony,” he says, and he’s usually  _good_  at selling a lie, but something about her eyes on him makes his palms sweat. “Sorry about this.”

“Wrong balcony,” she echoes, eyebrows lifting.

Oliver clears his throat. “I was trying to... find someone.”

“By scaling a building and jumping onto random balconies,” she says, her words dripping with an amused sort of skepticism. “You know,” she adds, leaning in and dropping her voice to a stage whisper, “we have _doors_  in this place.”

Sheepishly -- and how _this_  situation has turned into a moment where Oliver Queen is actually blushing a little and trying to string words together to win over this tiny blonde firecracker, he’ll never know -- he tucks his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “I couldn’t remember which loft was hers, and I didn’t want to wake anyone with the buzzer.”

The saucy confidence in her demeanor shifts, somehow. “Oh,” she says, just a bit disappointed. “Right. Of course.” 

“No,” Oliver objects, stepping a little closer to her. “Not like-- It’s--” He pauses, then makes this strange huffing laugh-type sound that he’s definitely never made before. “My sister,” he says, then clarifies, “it’s her friend’s place. I was just going to... check up on them.”

She doesn’t look convinced. Which is fair, because none of what he’s telling her is actually true. “How old is your sister?”

“Sixteen,” Oliver answers, allowing that strange mix of pride, and terror he feels when thinking about Thea to color the way he says the word. “ _Very_  sixteen.” He’s oddly relieved to be able to tell her at least one true thing.

“Ah,” the blonde says, and there’s a hint of a smile on her face now. “Scary age for big brothers, I’d imagine.”

“Definitely,” Oliver agrees, and he’s not sure why, but this brief, random encounter with a gorgeous stranger in the middle of the night is a little bit exhilarating. “She’s a handful, that’s for sure.” She’s also safely in bed back at home, and he needs to stop being sidetracked by beautiful, bubbly blondes and get his ass home, too. He knows he needs to leave, but he can’t help the muffled sigh of disappointment that escapes him. “I should--”

“Oh, no,” she interrupts, closing the distance between them and wrapping her hand around his wrist. “No way are you skittering down the side of this very tall building like some kind of-- of--” She breaks off and stamps her foot in irritation, and it might be the most adorable thing Oliver has seen in his entire life. 

“Gecko?” he offers, grinning helplessly down at her. She’s even more gorgeous up close -- lively eyes and plump lips and those distinctive glasses. 

She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t like skittery things. Also,” she adds, releasing her hold on him, “I shouldn’t let total strangers into my house, even if they’re just passing through. To use the _door_ , I mean,” she adds with a wince, “and the elevator.”

Oliver is still smiling at her as he offers his hand. “Oliver Queen.”

She glances down at it, then puts her tiny hand in his. Her nails are painted light blue and her grip is firm as she pumps his hand. “Felicity Smoak.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Felicity Smoak,” he says, savoring the shape of her name on his tongue.

It’s too dark on the balcony to be sure, but he thinks she might be blushing as she turns away. “C’mon,” she tells him, moving to the balcony door. She stops and turns back. “You’re not a crazy murderer, though, right?”

“Right,” he agrees. “Definitely not.”

“Okay!” she answers cheerfully, leading him into her place. “Then you’re welcome to use my actual door so you don’t fall off the building.”

Her loft is the same layout as Dennet’s, but neat and colorfully decorated. “You have a lovely home,” he tells her, because his parents and his fortune are gone, but the manners he learned as a young boy are ingrained.

“Thank you,” Felicity says with a smile. They both slow as they reach the front door. Felicity swivels to face him. “Is it weird to say thanks for randomly jumping onto my balcony like some kind of superhero?” She tips her head. “Or cat burglar?”

Oliver chokes a little on his laugh. “It’s not weird at all,” he answers. “But I really should go.” He doesn’t want to, but he needs to leave this woman alone. He moves to the door and pulls it open, half-turning back to face her. “Thank you for letting me use your door.”

“Anytime,” Felicity answers cheerfully. Then she reaches out and touches his forearm. “Wait, not like, _you should feel free to Spider-Man up the building to use my door anytime_ , just, you know... Maybe I’ll see you around the building sometime.” Her voice is tentative now, soft and a little unsure. “You know, if you’re picking up your sister or something.”

Oliver ignores the sad little ache in his chest at the possibilities her words hint at; he is a criminal who steals from other, bigger, more dangerous criminals. He’s not the kind of man who should be taking a woman like this out for dinner, no matter how much he wants to suggest that. “Maybe,” he manages with a small, wistful smile. “It was nice to meet you, Felicity.”

Oliver steps into the hall and turns towards the elevators. Behind him, Felicity says, “Good night, Oliver,” just before he hears the click of her door shutting. 

He rides the elevator down to the main floor silently, and emerges onto the sidewalk with a strangely heavy heart. And if he spends a little too long gazing up at her balcony, well, at least no one is around to witness it.

-30-


	106. dialogue fic as a coping mechanism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 9Nov2016: I just…… need something not-awful for a quick second

 

“Felicity. Why is your dog on our bed?”

“Veronica is _our_  dog, Oliver, and I have no idea why she’s on the bed.”

“Have you been letting her sleep on the bed when I’m not home?”

“That is not a very trusting, husbandly question to ask your poor, abandoned new wife, Oliver.”

“ _Abandoned_?”

“You’ve been in San Francisco for days. _Days_ , Oliver. We’ve been married for six weeks and you’d rather--”

“Oh, no, you don’t – you know this bed, here, with you, is my favorite place in the entire world. Which is why I am extremely puzzled to find your dog--”

“ _Our_  dog.”

“--curled up on the duvet, as if she’s used to sleeping there. As if you’ve been snuggling with her on the bed, despite the house rules that she is not allowed on the bed.”

“Oliver.”

“Yes?”

“We’re newlyweds.”

“I’m aware.”

“And you left me all alone for--”

“ _Three days_.”

“--three _super-_ long nights. In the dead of winter!”

“Felicity, it’s March.”

“It’s _cold_ , and you know I don’t sleep well without you anymore, which is _really_  your fault for being all warm and snuggly all the time. How was I supposed to get any sleep at all with you gone unless--”

“You _did_  let her on the bed. I knew it!”

“Oliver, look at her _face_. She’s so comfortable. Why are you kicking her out of the bedroom?”

“Because, Felicity, I have been away from my bride and our bed for three long nights, and if you think I’m going to fuck you senseless while your dog watches, you’re crazy.”

“…”

“…”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“So, uh… you raise an interesting point, Oliver.”

“I thought so.”

“Veronica will --  _oh_ , that feels nice -- she’ll be fine in that expensive dog bed that I --  _yeaaaah,_ I really like when you--”

“Felicity?”

“Yeah?”

“Stop talking about the damn dog.”

“Make me.”

-30-

 


	107. Ficlets-for-Votes: arranged marriage AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> geniewithwifi asked: I'm registered! Have been since like June for Prelims. Fic prompt: ARRANGED MARRIAGE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: I am still so very slowly digging my way through my rage and sorrow over the outcome of the election. But I will write these ficlets-for-votes stories, as promised! My apologies if my angst bleeds into some of the stories.

 

“This is ridiculous,” Felicity mutters.

Not that it matters if anyone hears her – no one can get her out of this ridiculous, backwards, misogynistic _mess_  even if she screamed it at the top of her lungs.

Nope. No choices for Felicity Smoak, estranged daughter of Noah Kuttler, who, it turns out, _heads up_  HIVE, an organization that splintered off from the League of Assassins. Which, _yes_ , is _actually what it sounds like_! A league made up of _assassins_! Because apparently Felicity fell asleep on her couch marathoning some quality post-apocalyptic shows on Netflix and _woke up in crazytown_.

Or, even _more_  improbably, her long-lost dad kidnapped her from her very boring, very normal life in Starling, transported her to somewhere without any sort of detectable wifi or satcom signals, and is planning to _marry her off_ to someone important in the League of Assassins to heal the breach between the two organizations. Like she’s just a chess piece that her father can move at will, instead of a living, breathing, _willful_  woman. It’s _infuriating_.

All in all, she’d rather be fighting her way through the zombie apocalypse, because at least that way, her choices would be _her own._  She wouldn’t be locked in some sort of velvet-draped _holding cell,_  bruised and aching from her futile escape attempts. It’s been a very long, very painful three days, and it’s only going to get worse, since her _wedding_  is in an hour.

She still intends to resist.

When her father’s assistants arrive, Felicity refuses to help them gussy her up for the ceremony. She’s not a trained fighter, but she’s determined and terrified, so she fights them some more. The end result is a blade at her throat and a demand that she put on the foreign robes they’d laid out for her before she woke.

“I’m Jewish,” she reminds them. “I don’t know what kind of ceremony this is going to be, but unless there’s a Rabbi and a chuppah and, you know, _my actual agreement--_ ”

“Get. Dressed,” the guard with the knife to her throat growls. “I won’t ask you again.”

She still refuses, choosing passive resistance. And then she tries not to cry when rough hands undress and redress her in the heavy, unfamiliar robes of _wherever_  they are. Nanda Something, if she overheard that conversation correctly. She keeps waiting to wake up from this nightmare, but she’s already pinched her arms repeatedly, burned herself on one of the candles, and been punched twice and nothing’s woken her up.

This is awfully, frightfully real.

In the end, she’s a little proud that it takes four men to drag her from her cell. They take her down into a grand hall lit by braziers and lined by men -- so many men, of _course_  it’s almost all men -- in strange black uniforms. With _swords_  on their hips, because _assassins_.

That’s probably when she starts to laugh -- a high, keening, borderline-hysterical reaction to these impossible circumstances. When the crowd moves some, she sees her father standing at the front of the room beside the Demon’s Head. Yeah. That’s what they call the leader of the League, because this place is just a _nightmare_.

It’s only then that she notices the man standing with them. This must be the guy. Heir to the Demon. Again with the staggeringly accurate and wholly terrifying nicknames. He’s as grim and darkly dressed as the rest, his hand on his scabbard as he watches her being frog-marched to the front of the hall. And she’s supposed to _marry_  him.

He steps forward, and holds out his arm for her. She glares at him before turning her attention to her father. “I won’t do this,” she tells him, defiant despite the quaver of fear in her voice.

“It’s done, Felicity,” he answers. “There are no options.” Then he flicks a dismissive hand at the men who’d dragged her here and the many pairs of hands on her loosen.

She glances around, at the hundreds of League faces, at the two evil men presiding over this, at the man she’s supposed to _marry_  in some sort of arcane political farce. There’s no way she can get out of this alive. There’s no way she can outrun or outfight hundreds of trained assassins. But she just _can’t_  bow to this insanity without making it clear she _does not want this_.

So she bolts.

Or tries to.

As soon as she tenses to whirl back towards the door, the Heir to the Demon is there, both arms wrapped around her as he hauls her into his chest and holds on, one arm banded around her waist, the other pinning her upper body to his. Her face is pressed against his chest, his heavy thighs clamped around one of her legs so she can’t even knee him in the balls.

“No!” she squawks, struggling against him, but he is frightfully strong.

She hears movement around them, their audience of assassins pressing closer, chattering amongst themselves. “Back off,” the man holding her orders, his chest rumbling with the command. Then he leans closer, his lips to her ear, and whispers, “Please, stop struggling. They will kill us both.”

Felicity goes still. His words sound more like a plea to her good sense than a threat. All she’s been confronted with since she woke up on that stupid plane four days ago is threats, violence, and a stubborn refusal to see her as a person with rights and thoughts and a voice in her fate. Now the man she’s being forced to marry is paying her at least a modicum of respect -- she definitely didn’t expect that.

And she knows he’s right -- if she tries to run again, they will kill her. It hadn’t occurred to her that they would do anything other than simply find some other poor woman to marry off to this hulk of a man. Would they really kill him, too?

Can she even try to apply logic or reason to this moment?

Felicity turns her head, eyeing the Demon where he stands above them. He seems to be a hard man, watching them dispassionately, one hand on hilt of his very large sword. When he sees her looking at him, he smiles a sneering kind of smile and says to his heir, “Control your woman, or we will end this farce.”

Her intended stiffens slightly at the command. “I won’t hurt you,” he breathes, tightening his grip and turning them so they’re back where they started, standing before the makeshift altar.

When his grip loosens, she steps back, looking up at him. His expression is hard, his jaw set. But his eyes burn with _something_ , though she’s not sure what.

Felicity looks around again, at the forces amassed around her. She has a choice to make -- death or this marriage? She really, _really_  doesn’t want to die. But can she trust this total stranger, this trained assassin who’s attained a high position in the League? She wants to --  _God_ , she wants to believe someone will be her hero in this obscene circumstance.

The Heir’s hands loosen from her shoulders, and he trails his hands down her arms, taking hold of her hands in his. “Trust me,” he tells her quietly. “I will protect you.”

It’s a risk. A _huge_  risk. This doesn’t feel like the kind of place that would be cool with divorce in case she’s wrong about deciding to trust this man instead of running headlong to her own death. But as long as she’s alive, she will have _some_  opportunity to fight for her freedom. She will live and she will fight for her right to make her own choices.

So she takes a deep breath and she nods.

With a pit of despair low in her belly, she marries a stranger under threat of death. The ceremony lasts what feels like forever, and is largely performed in a language that Felicity doesn’t speak. She stands on shaky legs, her hands like ice where they’re held by her future husband’s, and listens to the call and response between the officiant and the man before her.

Only once is her participation required -- he squeezes her hands gently, and she snaps back to the present. When it’s clear she has no idea what to do, he leans closer and says, “Say yes.”

Felicity gives one last, pleading look to her father, but he stares back, expressionless. And _how_ can he feel nothing for her? What kind of man can do this to his own daughter?

Defiant, she lifts her chin, meets the Heir’s bright blue eyes, and says, “Yes.”

Ten minutes later, it’s over, and her new husband leads her from the large chamber. Their progress is accompanied by a raucous bout of cheers, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what _that’s_  about.

Felicity starts to panic.

She slows down, falling behind him despite his firm grip on her hand. Her gaze flits around, searching frantically for some way out, some way to make this next part _not happen_.

When they reach an unfamiliar hallway lit only by wall sconces, Felicity feels tears welling up. She fights for composure, but she’s had a _really_  shitty few days, and she can’t quite hold it together.

The man she’s just married stops abruptly when she sniffles, turning back to her with wide eyes. “Hey,” he says softly, “I won’t hurt you. I promise you, I won’t-- I’m not a rapist.”

Felicity studies his face closely, pressing her trembling lips together before she gives him a shaky nod.

“Just,” he leans closer, lowering his voice, “we need to talk, okay?”

It’s not like she has any better options – or any clear idea where she _is --_  so she follows him to the end of the hall, through a big, heavy wooden door. They’re in a large suite, furnished much more lavishly than her holding cell, but with that same theme -- jewel-toned drapes and candlelight. She eyes the bed suspiciously and pulls free of his grip.

He lets her, turning to face her and taking a step back, giving her space. They stare at each other in awkward silence for a long moment, before he blows out an anxious breath. “I’ve never heard Kuttler speak of a daughter before. Are you a member of HIVE?”

“No!” Felicity can feel the panicky ramble coming, but she can’t seem to shut her mouth. “I’m a security expert at Queen Consolidated! I work with computers, and I got to the same coffee shop every morning, and I don’t get out enough, I know, but the absolute _last_  thing I needed was for my father to rip my out of my real life and bring me here and make me--” Her words cut off on a sob, and she slaps her hand over her mouth.

“Hey, hey,” he murmurs, moving restlessly like he wants to comfort her but isn’t sure how it will be received. She isn’t sure either, so she half-turns from him, holding up a hand to ask for a moment.

When she reins herself back in, she turns back to him. “So, no. Not HIVE. Is that-- Are you--?”

“My name is Oliver Queen,” he says, and she stares at him, unblinking. The only Oliver Queen she can think of is the one who died in some kind of accident a few years ago – a rich, handsome layabout who lived off of his family money until he died. The man before her nods once. “Yes, _that_  Oliver Queen.”

“No,” Felicity says, shaking her head. “You’re dead, so... I mean, _he’s_  dead, so you’re obviously not him.”

“I _am_ him. My family’s yacht sank five years ago. As far as I know, my father and my friend, Sara, died when it went down, along with all the crew. I found a piece of the yacht and managed to stay afloat for a day, until I was rescued by someone who brought me here.”

She doesn’t register his words at first, too busy studying his face, trying to remember the paparazzi photographs of Ollie Queen from years ago. It– It _could_  be him, but that would be insane. How did a playboy billionaire become an _assassin_? “The League of Assassins fished out you of the South China Sea?” she asks, skepticism coloring her tone.

“Look,” he says, stepping closer and laying gentle fingers on her bicep, “I can’t explain everything right now. I just need you to understand that neither of us is here by choice.” He’s watching her so intently as he adds, “People here know me as Al-Saheem. I’m trusting you with the truth, because if we’re ever going to get out of here, I need you to trust me, too.”

Felicity watches him, trying to consider all the options, all the possible plays he could be making. Is he really Oliver Queen? Does he really want out of this insanity? If he does, would he really take her with him?

Again, she’s running seriously low on options, and although she’s had a _very_  bad few days, she’s pretty sure it’s more than just this scenario that makes her want to trust him. “You’re really Oliver Queen?” she asks.

“Yes.”

She tilts her head to the side. “I met your mother.”

The hitch in his breath in reaction to that is what convinces her. “Is she-- How is she?” he breathes.

“Scary,” Felicity answers immediately, then she cringes. “I mean, _good_. She’s good. Your sister, too.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, like he’s savoring this tidbit of information about his family. Standing so close to her in this remarkably flattering candlelight, he’s unbelievably handsome. Felicity hadn’t noticed before, what with all the forced nuptials and general panic. But she sure notices now.

“Oliver?” she asks, and his eyes pop open. “Did you mean what you said? About getting out of here?”

“I did.”

She studies him a moment longer. “Okay,” she decides, even though this _could_  be a huge mistake. “I guess we’re going to have to trust each other.”

When he smiles at her, he looks like an entirely different person than the hardened man she first glimpsed in that great hall not so very long ago. His eyes light up and he seems relieved. And he’s _beautiful_. “Good.” He offers her his hand.

Felicity reaches out and shakes it firmly. When she goes to let him go, though, he squeezes gently. “Would you please tell me your name?” he asks. “I’d like to know who I’m married to.”

“Oh!” Felicity nods. “Right. Of course. Felicity. Smoak.”

“Felicity Smoak,” he repeats, loosening his grip on her hand.

Felicity crosses her arms and says, “And you’d better believe I am _keeping_  my name.” That surprises a genuine laugh out of him, and they smile at each other for a moment. “Okay,” Felicity says, all business. “Now we have to go to some sort of banquet, right?” When he nods, she continues, “Okay, so:  food, _then_  plotting our way out of this insane mess. Right?”

Oliver watches her with a fond half-smile. “Right.” 

-30-


	108. Episode-Related AUish Take on 5x09 - Don’t read this if you don’t like angst. Or S5. I mean it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **AUish spin on the events of 5x09 (ANGST WARNING)**
> 
> **Don’t read this if you don’t like angst. Or S5. I mean it.**

 

 

There’s a deep terror in the pit of Oliver’s stomach as he makes his way up the escalator in search of Prometheus and his hostage. He is close to panicking, because he is operating with a serious lack of information on Prometheus generally, and right now specifically, because _Felicity--_

He takes an unsteady breath. He can’t panic. He can’t give in to this bone-chilling fear that he won’t be enough, that he won’t be able to save her. He needs to be at his absolute best to get Felicity away from Prometheus.

At the top of the escalator, there are more bodies leading him toward the small pool. Still no sign of Prometheus, or of Felicity, but this stage has been set far too elaborately to be a bust. Oliver _knows_  he’s being set up somehow. He _knows_  it’s a trap, but ever since Billy stumbled into his office to let him know Felicity was missing, Oliver has been operating with the knowledge that he will do _anything_  to save her; he will gladly give his life for hers. If this is a trap meant to kill him, so be it -- as long as Felicity walks out of her alive and unharmed.

What he can’t quite figure out is --  _why her_? Why did Prometheus take Felicity? She wasn’t part of the team back then – not really. There’s no way he could know of her minor involvement in the Claybourne case.

Which probably means she’s been taken because of her intense importance to him. 

Oliver will kill Prometheus for this.

He moves into the building, bow and arrow at the ready. He doesn’t remember enough of the night he’d gone after Claybourne. It comes back in flashes as he finds more bodies, more people killed just to prove a sick, twisted point to him about the people _he’d_  killed. He already regrets it, and he can’t let himself get bogged down in recriminations.

He has one goal: _save Felicity_.

It’s dark and there are mirrors on some of the walls and support beams, lending an eerie, disorienting quality to the whole thing. Still, Oliver moves on, that animating, terrorizing pit in his stomach warning him --  _something’s coming_.

Prometheus’s voice.

Everywhere and nowhere.

Oliver brings the bow up, pulls the string, shifts for cover. He scans the space and sees nothing. The voice is distorted and echoing, making it hard to pinpoint the source. He slips around another mirror, another support beam, and catches movement.

A figure.

Prometheus, standing oddly still, but for one hand moving by his thigh.

Oliver looses the arrow instinctually, _immediately_  -- target, aim, release. It’s muscle memory, and the arrow _thuds_  directly into Prometheus’s chest.

And _then_  Oliver stiffens.

Small stature. Too small.

A strange glint near where the arrow landed.

A familiar hand gesture, finger rubbing against thumb.

Sick, life-altering realization strikes Oliver even as she’s falling to the ground. “No, no, _no_!”

He rushes forward, towards the body on the ground, and Prometheus’s voice is _still talking_. He doesn’t understand a single word, because every panicking atom in his body is focused on the person he’s just shot. _Fatally_  shot. 

It can’t be. _It can’t be_.

Oliver’s knees strike the floor, his bow clattering down beside him, and he removes the head covering with shaking hands. Blonde hair spills onto the floor.

“ _Felicity_.” He breathes her name in shock, denial, disbelief.

She’s alive, wide blue eyes locked onto his. But the arrow, _his_  arrow, is sunk deep into her chest. When he gently pulls the tape from her face, there’s blood in her mouth. Her breathing is rapid and shallow, and he can tell from the look on her face that she knows. 

He knows it, too, with the certainty of a man with too many lives taken not to recognize what’s coming.

She’s dying.

Felicity is dying by his arrow.

Still, he protests, shaking his head, cradling her face with his gloved hands. “No, Felicity, you can’t. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. _Please_ , you can’t leave. You can’t die.”

She smiles and takes a gasping breath. “Don’t wanna,” she slurs. Her fingers touch his leg, pressing lightly, scratching lightly in that achingly familiar way. 

“Then _don’t_ ,” he tells her. He’s crying now, his voice clogged with tears and regret. “You can’t. You _can’t._ ”

Her eyelids droop, and he can tell she’s fighting it. “Love you,” she breathes.

Oliver folds himself over her, forehead to forehead. “I love you, Felicity. I love you. Please, please don’t go. I love you.” When her hand falls away from his leg, he knows she’s gone. “I’m sorry,” he cries over and over, as his future collapses in on itself, as the brightest part of his life is snuffed out. 

Felicity’s gone.

 _And he killed her_.

Overcome with grief, with self-hatred, with impotent rage, Oliver sits up, tipping his head back, and screams her name to the sky.

“ _ **Felicity**!”_

Oliver blinks at the unfamiliar ceiling, feeling the tear tracks on his cheeks, the tension and panic in his body as his shout fades, but he’s not-- he’s--  _Where is he_?

“Oliver?”

He blinks, recognizing Susan’s voice, and Susan’s bedroom. The rest comes back in a rush -- Billy. He’d killed Billy. He drops his face into his hands and tries to steady his breathing. _I didn’t kill Felicity,_ he tells himself. _Felicity is fine. Felicity is alive._

“Oliver?” Susan repeats, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Bad dream?”

He can’t quite curb the urge to shy away. Everything is too raw, and with each blink, he sees Felicity’s lifeless body from the dream. He’s kneeling in the middle of Susan’s mattress, naked and crying over a nightmare in which he killed the love of his life. “I can’t,” he manages. 

The nightmare is still too vivid, too awful to shake loose. _She’s alive_ , he reminds himself. _I didn’t kill Felicity_.

There’s a long quiet moment, and then Susan is moving. Oliver doesn’t look up, but tracks her movements. She slips on a t-shirt, then returns to the side of the bed and places his boxer-briefs and pants beside him. “I think your shirt is in the living room,” she says quietly.

Oliver scrubs at his face and takes a shuddering breath before looking up to meet her empathetic, disappointed gaze. “Thanks,” he says woodenly, shifting so he can dress quickly. He pushes himself upright on unsteady legs. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for, not really. He probably shouldn’t have slept with her; he _definitely_  shouldn’t have fallen asleep here. That might’ve been the worst nightmare he’s ever had --  _I didn’t kill Felicity_  -- but he should’ve expected fallout after a day like this.

“It’s okay,” Susan answers slowly. “But I don’t think we should do this again.”

He nods, then turns to leave her bedroom, to finish dressing in the living room. As he shrugs his jacket on, he glances over his shoulder at Susan. She’s leaning against the wall by the bedroom, watching him with a strange expression. He pauses. “I’m sorry, Susan.”

She gives him a smile, but it’s perfunctory. “You don’t know if you’re ready to move on until you try, right?” 

Oliver knows he’s not ready, he knows he still loves Felicity, but none of that matters now. He killed her boyfriend. _I didn’t kill Felicity_.

Still, he manages some sort of noise of acknowledgment, and leaves Susan’s apartment to ponder the wreck he’s made of his life. He has no right to comfort Felicity, but he can’t help himself -- he heads to the loft, the brutal memory of her dying by his arrow chasing him. He _needs_  to see her, to prove to himself that she’s alive. 

 _I didn’t kill Felicity_.

It’s a terrible idea, but Oliver scales the building and launches himself quietly onto their old balcony. He stays well back in the shadows. It’s after 2, and the only light in the loft is the fireplace. Felicity is curled up on the couch, nose red, eyes puffy and red-rimmed, staring vacantly at the flames. 

But gloriously alive.

His hungry gaze soaks her in, lingering on her chest so he can see her breathing. Oliver aches to go to her, to comfort her, but he _can’t_. He knows his presence will only hurt her right now. 

Movement in the kitchen catches his attention, and he sees Thea pouring water from the teakettle into Felicity’s favorite mug. There’s a ripped-open package of gourmet hot chocolate on the counter, and a bag of marshmallows. Thea drops a couple of marshmallows into Felicity’s mug, tilts her head, and then grabs another handful and dumps them in. 

When she turns to head back to Felicity, her gaze collides with Oliver’s. Thea stops, watching him curiously for a long moment. Oliver lifts a hand to his chest, pressing it against his pounding heart, and Thea seems to understand all the things he’s trying to communicate -- his sorrow, his guilt, his thanks that she’s there for Felicity when he can’t be.

Thea nods her head once, then shoos him away with her free hand. She heads back to Felicity’s side. 

Oliver lingers a bit longer, watching the two most important women in his life interacting. Thea brushes Felicity’s hair away from her face, and throws an arm around her and rocks her a bit when she starts to cry again. 

Oliver’s chest aches with regret. He drops his gaze, feeling like an outsider. Knowing he deserves to be on the outside for this. He didn’t kill Felicity, but he killed Billy. He’s responsible for taking another person Felicity cares about away from her. He doesn’t know how many times he can wound her before she leaves him entirely, but he wants _so badly_  to do better. To _be_  better.

For Felicity. For Thea. For Dig and Lyla and the others. 

He needs to be better, and he needs to start right now. With a sigh, Oliver moves to the balcony railing and climbs over. When he reaches the sidewalk, he heads for the lair.

-30-

_Yeahhhhhh, the initial idea hit yesterday, and the Susan-related part hit during my commute today. At least I didn’t ACTUALLY have Oliver kill Felicity, right?_


	109. Episode-Related Missing Scene Related to 5x22:  Because those two idiots were stupid cute last night, and I couldn’t get over Oliver’s big dumb face, and thoughts of how these fake dinner plans were made

 

 

It’s nearly midnight, and Oliver is fading fast. A full day at City Hall digging into the compelling issues like _zoning variances for solar panel installation_ and _the worsening rat problem in the eastern section of the Glades_  left him mentally drained, and a quick workout plus two hours of effort to apprehend some mid-level drug dealers has left his body pleasantly tired. 

He’s pretty optimistic he’ll sleep well tonight. Five solid hours is good for him these days.  
  
He would’ve headed down to his makeshift home already, except that Felicity is still here in the bunker. Regardless of how much his body needs sleep, he will jealously guard any moments with her -- particularly now that they’re on better footing. So here he sits, ostensibly working on some arrows, but mostly just watching her. She’s engrossed in her work, which leaves him free to -- as Diggle phrased it a few days ago --  _gaze_  at her. 

Felicity’s wearing her trademark ponytail, and is dressed impeccably despite the late hour in a deliciously form-fitting navy dress and those black and silver Mary Janes that he loves on her. He’s trying not to read into anything, but those shoes have featured prominently in some memorable encounters, and he hasn’t seen her in them since their breakup.

He’s trying to be patient, and to be satisfied with a warm friendship with Felicity if that’s all she’s ever comfortable with, but he can’t deny the small, growing hope in his chest that maybe, _maybe_  Felicity has forgiven him for his many mistakes. Maybe the door _is_  open -- at least a crack.

Oliver won’t let himself expect anything, and he definitely won’t push. If there is a possibility for more with Felicity, he will not be the one to make the first overture. But it’s been months and months since they broke up, and the inescapable fact is that he loves her. He can’t _not_  love her, regardless of how she feels about him. But in moments like this, in the quiet, in the dark, he will let himself watch her, and he will let himself wonder if she is his future. 

Still. 

Again.

Always.

Felicity abruptly pushes her chair back and stands, pausing to stretch, and Oliver finds himself smiling at her. Each move she makes is so familiar to him from years of working together and their months of _being_  together. He greedily drinks her in, amused even as he feels that same dull ache of missing her. 

“All done?” he asks, absently twirling a flechette between his fingers.

Felicity turns to him with a bright smile, her gaze flicking down to his hands before meeting his. She walks towards him slowly, and Oliver stills as he recognizes the flirtatious sway of her hips; for someone who talks as much and as enthusiastically as she does, Felicity communicates volumes with her body language. They’ve always been good at reading each other, but their months together showed him exactly what she looks like when she’s sleepy and pouting in the morning sunlight, or when she’s absently bopping along to a favorite song on the radio, or when she’s feeling amorous and wants him to notice and react.

The way she’s moving right now and the subtle, smirking curve of her bright pink lips -- it sets him ablaze.

But she hasn’t approached him this way in more than a year – even that one glorious, heartbreaking night down here, she’d basically jumped him instead of deploying this slow seduction. He knows she’s not initiating sex right now (probably?), but just having her lustful energy directed at him is overwhelming at this point. 

He remains frozen in his chair, uncertain, the flechette gripped tightly in one hand.

“All done,” she confirms, warmth in her tone. She takes another step, stopping just inside the boundaries they’ve maintained for most of the last year.

“Tomorrow,” she says, watching him expectantly.

He’s so focused on interpreting all the non-verbal signals she’s giving him that it takes Oliver a moment to switch gears. “Tomorrow?”

She grins, tipping her head slightly. “Your birthday.”

“Oh.” Oliver blinks. “Right.” He thinks of Tommy, glancing down for a moment. It’s been long enough that he mostly remembers Tommy’s life, and not his dying moments. But the anniversary of his death is difficult.

“Oliver?” Felicity runs her fingertips along the edge of his wrist, the warmth of her touch bringing him out of his momentary funk.

“Yeah?” He can’t stop looking at her fingers -- those brightly painted blue nails against his skin. Any last illusions he’s had about moving on from her, from _them_ , fall away.

“Dinner,” she says, and he jerks his gaze up to hers, confused.

“What?”

“Tomorrow,” she explains, her words speeding up with what he recognizes as nervousness. “For your birthday. I wanted to -- I know it’s a complicated time of year for you, and you’re bad at celebrating yourself, so I wanted to take you to dinner.” Her fingers flex against his skin, and her words come even faster. “If you want to, I mean,” she adds with that adorable nervous laugh of hers. “I won’t kidnap you and, like, force feed you broccoli.” She frowns. “Which you _like_ , actually, and tried make _me_  eat, so really any broccoli-related force feeding would probably be the other way around, which is _so not_  appropriate for Chez Marta, so let’s just--” Her eyes go wide and she take a slow breath. “You. Me. Dinner." 

Oliver takes a moment to parse her invitation. Dinner with Felicity. For his birthday. At Chez Marta, a rather exclusive French bistro. With intimate, candlelit tables overlooking the bay.

His attempts at tamping down that hope inside his chest fail miserably. 

"Dinner?” he echoes, and he knows she can read all of his thoughts.

She bites her lip for a moment, her concern and her nervousness starkly visible. “Yes,” she answers. “Dinner. With me. If-- I mean, if you’d like--”

“I would like,” he interrupts quickly, unwilling to let this opportunity pass. He takes a steadying breath. “I would love that, actually." 

"Okay.” Felicity smiles, but it’s a little uncertain. She takes a step back, her fingers falling away from his wrist. “So I’ll just-- Well, I mean, I’ll take care of the reservations and everything, and you can just-- Oh!” She presses one finger to her bright pink lips, then points at him. “You, mister, are going to pick me up. At our-- At the loft. Because -- the environment!”

Oliver blinks, trying very hard not to smile at her. “Because of the environment,” he echoes, remembering dozens of shared showers, prompted by a smirk from Felicity and an exhortation to save the environment by saving water. 

When Felicity’s cheeks redden slightly, he knows she’s thinking of the same thing. "Fossil fuels,“ she adds, powering through her embarrassment. "We should save on gas and share. A ride," she clarifies. "In the car.”

“Definitely.” Oliver nods, a smile escaping as she turns away from him, moving over to her monitors to grab her purse. 

She loops it over her shoulder and turns back, pausing for just a moment to return his smile. Because they do this now -- they smile at each other. They enjoy each other’s company again. 

A few more of the splinters and cracks in his heart heal in the warmth of her smile. “Until tomorrow, then,” he says quietly.

“Until tomorrow,” she repeats, nodding once as she moves towards the door. “Oh!” She stops short and turns back, walking towards him with determined steps. 

“What did you--?” 

The words die in his throat when she leans down. She presses a kiss to his cheek, lingering just a bit longer than he expects. When she straightens up, she says softly. “It’s officially tomorrow. Happy birthday, Oliver.”

“Thank you,” he answers automatically, unable to tear his gaze from her as she gives him a small smile and turns to leave. 

She chirps, “Pick me up at 8!” just as the elevator doors close, leaving Oliver alone in the bunker, smiling softly at the spot she was just occupying.

He stands slowly, tossing the flechette aside and rubbing one hand through the stubble of his beard as he moves towards the stairs. He doesn’t know if she intends dinner to be a date, but he’s already letting himself think about which suit to wear. 

Definitely he’ll wear the tie she got him in Milan. 

-30-


	110. Episode-Related One-Shot Related to 5x23:  I find the cliffhanger uninteresting, so let’s skip right on past whatever the rescue effort is and just--

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **SPOILERS for 5x23**. I don’t know, guys, I find the cliffhanger uninteresting, so let’s skip right on past whatever the rescue effort is and just--

 

By the time they reach home, Felicity is exhausted and ache-y all over.

Lyla and JJ met them at the small private airport north of the city, and the exhausted group dispersed. Thea agreed to spend a couple days with the Michaels-Diggle clan; Samantha and William came to the loft with Felicity and Oliver to regroup; and the rest of the team made their way home to sleep off the physical and emotional toll of the last few days.

So, yeah. Her ex-fiance and current maybe boyfriend, his one-time one-night stand, and his newly-looped-into-it-all son are all here in the loft. Nothing weird or uncomfortable about that, which is why she is _totally_  calm and not at all spiraling.

“Um,” Felicity says, pausing near the bottom of the stairs and looking around tiredly. “I could make food if anyone’s hungry?” She frowns. “And by food I mean maybe something like popcorn? Or takeout.”

Oliver steps closer, taking her hand. “I think we could all use some sleep.”

“And water,” Felicity suggests. “Because air travel is dehydrating.”

Oliver’s soft smile helps settle her rattled nerves, and she finds herself smiling back. Despite her exhaustion, and the strangeness of this moment. “Why don’t you head upstairs,” Oliver suggests. 

To bed. Right. 

And, yeah, Felicity should probably put more thought into the fact that she and Oliver  are only at the baby-steps stage of reconciliation and she essentially invited him into her bed tonight, but she needs this. From the frantic way he’d embraced her when he found them on the rusting hulk of the Amazo, she figures he needs it, too. 

But what if it’s too soon? 

Thankfully, Oliver speaks again before she can reach full, over-tired panic. “I’ll get Samantha and William settled -- and I’ll get them some water,” he says with a squeeze of her fingers. 

She nods her agreement. “Okay.” Felicity meets Samantha’s gaze, then William’s. “Let me know if you need anything at all, okay? I mean, except food. This guy is the cook in this–” She cuts herself off, flushing with embarrassment at her sudden regression to referring to she and Oliver as a unit. A _pair_. That is jumping _way_ ahead of herself. She should really not be allowed to speak when she’s this tired – it goes very poorly. “This group,” she finishes.

William is watching her curiously. “Thank you for letting us stay here,” he says.

Felicity’s grip on Oliver’s hand tightens, because she has only interacted with William briefly, but he is _Oliver’s son._ If she and Oliver are going to be anything to each other, she needs to have a good relationship with his son. She at least needs the boy to not hate her. Because she will never come between William and Oliver -- she knows firsthand how much it hurts to lose your father.

Releasing Oliver’s hand, she takes a couple steps closer to William, crouching down to look him in the eye. “You are welcome here any time, William, okay?”

He studies her for a moment, then nods. “Okay.”

She can’t resist reaching out to pat his arm gently. “Good night, William.” Pushing herself up with a slight groan, she gives Samantha a smile and a good night before turning to the stairs.

The biostimulant in her spine isn’t quite as attenuated to her body post-EMP as its original configuration – she suspects there’s some lasting damage to the circuitry that’s affecting the communication between her brain and her nerves and muscles below the spinal damage. Whatever the cause, there’s a persistent weakness in her left leg. It’s worse when she’s tired, and since she’s physically sore and mentally exhausted at the moment, making her way up the stairs is a bit of a struggle. 

Once she reaches her room, she shrugs out of her jacket and kicks off her boots, heading towards the master bathroom. Twisting her hair up into a haphazard knot, she strips out of her clothes and turns on the shower. It’s a little slice of heaven when she steps into the spray. She turns her face up to the water and lets the warmth seep into her body.

Her back aches, and her legs are tired -- especially her left leg. She is mostly done washing up when she hears a tentative knock at the bathroom door.   
“Felicity?”

“Come on in, Oliver,” she tells him. The glass door of the large shower stall hides nothing, but then he’s seen her naked, like, _a lot_ , so she doesn’t feel particularly bashful about the idea of him seeing her tonight.

The door opens and he enters, his gaze finding and remaining stubbornly on her face, even as his hands form fists at his sides. When they were together the first time, he would’ve already been in the shower with her, his calloused hands on her body. She understands why he’s holding himself back, but sometimes she misses how easy they used to be with each other. 

Oliver shifts his weight. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he tells her. Off of her puzzled look, he adds, “You were limping.”

“Oh. Yeah.” She turns back to the water to rinse away the last of the soap. “My left leg is weaker than my right, and there’s some numbness.” She turns off the water and reaches for her towel. “We think the EMP caused a bit of damage to the chip, but haven’t had time to do much testing.”

The silence doesn’t register until she secures her towel and glances back at Oliver. He’s watching her as she steps carefully out of the shower. His eyes are wide and glittering with unshed tears. 

“Oliver, what--?”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and then he’s hugging her. She wraps her arms around him, breathing in his familiar scent -- a little more amplified than usual, but whatever – along with traces of smoke and leather. He presses his face against her neck, his arms tightening just a bit. “I’m just sorry you were hurt.”

She closes her eyes and breathes for a moment. “I know,” she answers softly, pushing back and waiting for him to meet her gaze. “But it’s not your fault. You know that, right?”

Felicity can see the struggle, the self-recrimination, but he pushes through it. “I know,” he tells her. She can see the truth on his face -- he understands, finally, that taking on the blame for things that aren’t his fault twists him up and usually leads to his stupider decisions.

She may be extrapolating a bit from his simple agreement.

“Good,” she says anyway, because they can work on the rest of it, as long as he’s _truthful_  with her. She leans up and kisses him. “Now take a shower and come to bed,” she murmurs against his lips.

Oliver stiffens slightly in her embrace. “Are you sure?” he asks. “I can sleep on the couch if--”

“I’m sure,” she interrupts, giving him a smile. “But,” she adds, poking his chest lightly, “no promises about sexytimes, because I’m too tired, and your son is within earshot.”

He huffs a tired laugh. “I’m too tired, too.” His big palm runs up and down her spine, flattening the towel against her skin, and she’s not feeling _as_  tired as she was a moment ago. “Go get in bed, I’ll be right there.”

That missing piece, that ache, the loneliness in her chest that she’s been carrying for more than a year _eases_. She beams up at him. “Hurry.”

From the way Oliver’s eyes darken, she thinks maybe he’s not feeling quite so tired anymore, either. “Yes, ma’am,” he murmurs, then releases her and _promptly_  pulls his shirt over his head.

Felicity crosses her arms and glares at him. “Tease,” she accuses.

Oliver’s eyebrows rise. “You had me come talk to you while you were in the shower,” he points out, his voice high and full of indignation. 

She reaches out, flattening her palm against his chest, right near his heart. “Oliver, we can talk about this more later, but I meant what I said on the island. I don’t want any more regrets between you and me.”

“I don’t either,” he agrees quickly, placing his hand over hers, holding her in place. “I have so many things to apologize for and--”

“Tomorrow,” she interrupts. “We’re too tired to have the emotional talk right now, Oliver, but I just– I don’t want to wait another night to sleep with you.” She pauses, frowning. “ _Sleep_  sleep,” she clarifies, but he’s already grinning at her.

“I know what you mean,” he assures her. “I can’t wait to be in your bed again.”

Her throat tightens with emotion and she nods, pressing her lips together. He smiles softly, and kisses her before releasing her hand and turning back to the shower.

Felicity makes herself turn and leave him to his shower. He’s right that they have some more clearing of the air to do, but they have agreed on the goal -- being together -- so she’s confident they’ll get there. 

And in the meantime, she will sleep -- _sleep_ sleep -- with the man she still wants to marry. 

So she pulls on her comfiest pajamas – the one with the dancing martini glasses -- and slips under the covers, letting her exhausted body relax into the mattress and her mind doze as she listens to the water splashing, and then the vaguest whispers of movement as Oliver goes to the closet to find the box of clothes he never took.

When the bed dips, Felicity rouses just long enough to roll closer to Oliver. His body is warm and solid and so comforting. He whispers good night against her hair and wraps an arm around her.

“Our bed,” she mumbles into the pillow. 

“Hmm?” Oliver stills, waiting for a response.

She’s _so_  sleepy, but she makes herself answer. “It’s _our_  bed,” she breathes. “Been lonely without you.”

As she drifts off to sleep, she hears him whisper, “I love you, too.”

-30-

 


	111. Pendrell’s Sporting Goods and Shooting Range

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some observations about Felicity, mostly during the season 1.5 timeframe. X-Files fans may recognize the name Pendrell -- yes, it’s an homage. :)

  
  


Pendrell’s Sporting Goods and Shooting Range is larger than it has any right to be, considering the size of the rural town it’s located in. But the store has been open forever (or at least since 1878, when it was Pendrell’s Dry Goods), and people still seem content to drive an hour or two from all around to shop here. Because Pendrell’s carries everything related to surviving and thriving in the great outdoors.

Everything you need to survive and thrive in the great outdoors -- that would be a much better slogan than “Your Outdoor Superstore,” Daniel thinks.

He wishes they would let him write the marketing materials, but he’s not actually a Pendrell, so his job description does not include rewriting their print ads. Helping customers keeps him pretty busy, most days, but the job gets monotonous. There are only so many ways to explain the advantages of a propane-fueled lantern or which insect repellent is the best and why.

Then  _ she  _ started coming in every once in a while.

Daniel had noticed her immediately -- and understandably so. Pendrell’s clientele are the outdoorsy type, generally speaking. Lots of camouflage and neutral colors -- greys and tans and maybe some navy blues. Mostly guys with hunting caps pulled low over weathered faces who speak sparingly. 

She’d walked into Pendrell’s one Saturday afternoon in bright red jeans, a black shirt with some kind of sparkly or sequined design on it, and knee-high leather boots with stacked heels that beat a cheerful rhythm on the worn hardwood floor. She’d been wearing dangly metal earrings, with her shiny blonde hair pulled into a low ponytail; his favorite thing about her might have been her bright pink lipstick. 

She’d been basically the opposite of everyone else in the store, including Daniel in his tan slacks and moss green polo top with the Pendrell’s logo on it.

He doesn’t really remember what, if anything, she’d purchased the first time she’d been there. Or the second or third -- he didn’t help her those days, he just watched her from afar. Which sounds a little creepy, but it’s not like he was stalking her. His fascination with her reminds him of the way birdwatchers talk about being captivated by unique beauty. 

Not that he thought of her as a  _ bird _ . Just -- these aren’t the colors he’s used to seeing in Pendrell’s, so to say she intrigued him would be an understatement. One day she wore a yellow-and-white sundress, and another she had on black jeans and a turquoise tank top. 

She’s beautiful and colorful and her presence in the store doesn’t make much sense to him, but at least she gives him something to think about. 

 

& & &

 

It’s a random Wednesday evening, and Daniel happens to be restocking the heated body suits in the hunting section when he hears the distinctive sound of high heels. 

It’s her again, this time in a purple shirt with white polka dots, and she’s walking directly towards him. Daniel isn’t sure where he gets the gumption, but he puts down the bulky packages he’s arranging and brushes his hands against his khaki pants. “Hi,” Daniel says. “Can I help you find anything?”

She stops in the aisle, ten feet from him, and smiles, and she’s even prettier than he’d thought -- she’s got little dimples in her cheeks, and her eyes sparkle behind those chunky glasses. “Hi!” she answers, her voice warm and cheerful. “Um, yeah, maybe. I’m looking at bows. Archery bows, not, like, bow ties. Obviously, since this isn’t a bow tie kind of store. I like archery. Which is why I want a bow.  _ Archery  _ bow.” She speaks quickly, the words tumbling out one after another, and he blinks in surprise.

Daniel nods. “Sure, okay. Our archery selection is right here.” He moves two displays over, gesturing to the glass display case housing the bows.

“Oh, I know,” she answers quickly, following him. “I’ve been here before for--” She stops, her head tilting slightly, and Daniel gets the sense that she’s reevaluating her words before she continues, “supplies.”

“You’re an archer?” he asks, trying his best to keep the disbelief out of his voice. Because she is bright and beautiful and bubbly, and he can’t quite picture her dressed in camo perched on a duck blind with a bow and arrow.

She sounds a little uncertain when she answers. “Oh, yes, big into archery. Love the outdoors and hiking. Nature’s so beautiful, right?” she asks, the words tumbling out in a rush, and he finds himself smiling back at her as he nods. She’s captivating. “Which is why I like to... kill things with a bow and arrow.” She doesn’t stop so much as wind down, a small frown on her face. “Squirrels,” she adds, “they’re the  _ worst _ , right?”

Daniel blinks again. “Uh, yeah. So you hunt... vermin. With a bow and arrow.” It’s an unusual habit, but okay.

“Yes,” she answers, but it sounds kind of like a question. She turns to the display case and leans closer, examining them. She frowns and taps the glass above a pink Stilleto model. “Do people buy pink bows?”

Nodding, Daniel circles to the other side of the display. “Yeah, those are pretty popular gifts for hunters’ girlfriends.”

She looks up at him, her eyes narrowing behind her glasses. “If they’re women with bows, aren’t they hunters themselves, and not hunters’  _ girlfriends _ ?” she demands. Kind of loudly. He gets the sense that there’s tempered steel underpinning her bright colors and endearing smiles.

“No,” Daniel sputters, “I mean, yes, they are. But I was talking about -- guys who are trying to get their girlfriends into hunting,” he explains quickly, because the glare on her face right now is more than a little intimidating, “so they get pink bows or pink guns or--”

“Pink  _ guns _ ?” she interrupts, incredulous.

“Oh, sure,” he answers, pointing to the gun section, “we have a few models if you’d--”

“No, no, no,” she says, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “It was bad enough walking around the Back Bay in 2007 with all of those stupid pink hats and-- Never mind, the  _ pinking _ of sports to make it acceptable for girls to like it or wear the colors, which are, of course,  _ no longer the actual colors _ , is so not the point. I just want to buy a nice bow so I can take it apart and--” She stops, eyes wide. “I mean, so I can  _ examine _ it. And then use it, obviously. I just think I’ll shoot better if I have my own bow and can really study it. How it works. So that I can arrow more squirrels. Or,” she frowns, “arrow squirrels more accurately.”

Daniel doesn’t know quite what to say to... all of that. Particularly the way she’s using  _ arrow _ as a noun. He blinks and presses on, “You don’t have your own bow now?” Because someone skilled enough to shoot small, fast-moving vermin with an arrow must be a pretty advanced archer.

“I do,” she says, tilting her head and pointing at him momentarily. “I do have my own. Bow. It’s just... a little broken. The frame is bent. From hitting something very solid,” she adds under her breath, and there’s an unexpected sadness in her expression as she looks down.

“Of course,” Daniel answers. “Um... so, you’d like to buy a bow today.”

“Yes!” she perks up quickly, clasping her hands together in front of her body. “I’d like to buy a really nice bow. Top of the line.” She nods, as if to underline her statement.

Daniel hesitates, expecting her to tell him  _ which _ bow she wants, but she’s watching him with raised eyebrows, clearly waiting for his response. Or, apparently, guidance. “Right,” he says, turning back to the display case. As he launches into the pros and cons of each model, he doesn’t let himself be distracted by her bright beauty. She takes in every word, asking insightful questions and making sure she has the precise schematics of her top choices.

All told, he spends about twenty minutes with her, helping her choose the high-end carbon bow that is, truth be told, a little too big for her frame. But she is insistent that she wants what she wants, and Daniel is reluctant to argue the point. 

So he rings up her purchase. He’d really like to put a name with the face, but she pays with cash. “Oh,” he says, just after he’s handed over the large bag with the bow, “did you want to buy some arrows today?”

Her smile falters, and she glances away for a moment, her lips pressed together tightly. When she looks back at him, Daniel can tell her cheeriness is forced. “I’ve got a lot of arrows already,” she tells him. “Just needed a new bow.” 

“Right.” Daniel nods.

“Thank you for your help,” she says, turning to leave. Daniel doesn’t watch her, because he’s not a creep, but he does listen to the distinctive click of her stack heeled boots on the floor fade away, unable to deny he’s a little sad that he’ll probably never see her again.

 

& & &

 

To Daniel’s surprise, she comes in a few more times when he’s working to pick up archery-related items like wrist guards. During one visit, she asks incredibly specific questions about bow construction; the next time he sees her, she’s frowning at a selection of camouflage quivers, muttering something about the drab green clashing with leather.

Still, Daniel appreciates seeing her. He’s man enough to admit he has a bit of a crush on the beautiful blonde with the archery fetish, despite not knowing her name. He does learn a bit about her over time -- like the fact that she lives in Starling, and works in the technology field, and, somewhat incongruously to every other thing he observes about her, she says she unwinds with occasional hunting trips. Hence the archery.

Daniel doesn’t quite believe her, but it takes him a while to figure out why. She knows a lot about archery, but when he thinks back on their conversations, all of the things she’s said sound like someone who  _ watches _ archery. Or maybe reads about it. Because she can recite facts and figures about bows and arrows, and she can calculate the trajectory of an arrow given launch angle, speed, and wind information, but there’s something about the  _ way _ she talks about these things that make it sound like a sterile kind of knowledge, instead of experience. That, when coupled with the distance she drives from the city to visit Pendrell’s, puts some very interesting thoughts into Daniel’s mind.

After all, it doesn’t escape his attention that Starling is the home of the archer-vigilante. He actually spent a few hours last winter scanning the available pictures of the vigilante, curious to see if he could identify the man’s weapon of choice. There weren’t good enough shots of the bow itself for Daniel to tell for sure, but he can’t quite match the shape with any of the brands he’s familiar with, which makes him think it’s a custom job. 

But surely Daniel’s mild fascination with the vigilante of Starling is the only reason he’s even thinking there could be some kind of connection to this woman. The timing doesn’t make sense, honestly -- he’s only noticed her in Pendrell’s since the Starling earthquake, which quite possibly killed the vigilante. 

More importantly, he can’t imagine how a bubbly office worker (and possible vermin hunter) would even cross paths with the vigilante, never mind end up working for him. Or with him? Whatever.

So Daniel tells himself he’s imagining things, and simply indulges his crush on the blonde when she happens to show up at Pendrell’s.

 

& & &

 

When Daniel sees her again, on a Saturday morning in late September, and she seems different.

Not that he  _ knows _ her really, but based on their prior interaction, he’d pegged her as the cheerful, open, carefree sort, and her body language this morning is tense. Nervous, maybe. Her hands are shoved into the pockets of her purple cotton jacket, and she just seems... tentative.

Also, she’s wearing a remarkably subdued pair of navy blue Keds, which is  _ definitely _ different. 

Daniel frowns, watching her curiously.

Instead of heading to the archery section, though, this morning she pauses to read the overhead signs, and then wanders toward the survival gear.

Huh. Maybe she’s more of a hunter than Daniel thought? He follows her to offer his assistance. Which is actually his job, so definitely not creepy.

She’s standing near a display of nylon backpacks with integrated water canteens, her nose wrinkled in what looks like distaste. 

“Uh, hi?” Daniel greets, stopping a few feet away. “Can I help you find anything?”

“Good cell service on a remote island in the North China Sea?” she murmurs with a biting kind of sarcasm. Then she whips her head towards him, eyes wide behind her glasses. “I mean... I... I’m going camping. Survivalist camping.” She frowns, lowering her voice a bit. “That’s a thing, right?”

“Survivalist camping?” Daniel echoes, trying very hard to sound non-judgemental. The more she talks about hunting and camping -- things she supposedly does for fun -- the less he believes her. He just can’t figure out why she’d lie about it. 

“You know, like, say I had the great idea to fly to a remote island and--” She pauses, pursing her lips for a moment-- “camp there for a few days. What would I need to, you know,  _ not die _ ?”

Daniel processes her request. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Okay. You need to bring everything with you for this trip, right?”

Her forehead scrunches up and she shrugs. “Yes?” It’s more of a question than an answer.

“There’s no food, water, or shelter where you’re going?” he prods. 

She brightens. “Oh!” Then deflates. “Yeah, no. It’s a pretty sucky island, as far as I’m aware, so let’s assume nothing good.”

Daniel does not let himself ask why she’s going there if it sucks, even though the curiosity is nearly killing him at this point. Instead, he asks, “What’s the climate?”

“You’d think tropical,” she mutters, more to herself than to Daniel, “but apparently you’d be wrong. Um, cool. Occasionally rainy? Look--” She glances at his nametag-- “Daniel, I’m going to be straight with you:  I am  _ not _ a camper. I don’t camp. Or hike. Or... really go places where I have to think about things like food and shelter more urgently than, like,  _ Hey, I saw a sign for a Denny’s at the next exit _ . If you were to send me off on my not-so-merry way to spend, say, three nights in a cool forest on Suck Island, what would you have me bring?”

“Everything,” he answers quickly, then adds, “So you’ll carry in and out.” When she stares uncomprehendingly at him, he elaborates, “There aren’t reliable resources there, so you’re hiking in and out carrying everything you need? We need to figure out what weight you’re comfortable carrying.”

She brings one hand to her forehead for a moment and sighs. “I am going to kill him,” she says almost too quietly for Daniel to hear. Then she straightens her shoulders and nods once. “Yes, apparently I will need to hike around carrying my own food and water and, like,  _ tent _ or whatever. Can you help me?”

She’s got her hands clasped together in front of her chest and a pleading look on her face, and there’s not even a chance Daniel would be able to tell her no even if he weren’t harboring a reasonably sized crush on her. Which he definitely is. In fact, when she heaves a sigh of relief and touches his arm in thanks, he actually flushes a little and has to turn away from her.

It takes them quite a while to work out exactly what she’ll need. In the end, she buys a bedroll, lightweight base layers, mosquito repellant wipes, anti-bacterial wipes, a small first aid kit, a package of small bamboo utensils, wool socks, and a multi-pocketed hiking backpack to put it all in. She gravitates to the most brightly colored backpack (shimmering turquoise) and technical clothing (bright royal purple); coincidentally, those selections seem to be the only thing she’s excited about buying. She considers but ultimately rejects a wide-brimmed pink sunhat, refuses his suggestion to look at hiking boots, and, just before checking out, pleads for some sort of portable coffeemaker.

“That  _ has _ to be a thing,” she argues when he tells her it’s not. “People love coffee! Coffee is great! How can people have the energy for all of this unreasonable hiking and camping and stuff without the life-saving effects of a good cup of coffee? Or three?” She is not pleased when he suggests she bring packets of instant coffee and heat water over a fire. 

But her brief irritability is gone by the time he’s rung up all of her items. This time, she hands over a credit card. Daniel feels an unreasonable amount of happiness when he looks down and finally learns her name.

Felicity Smoak.

He swipes the card, hands her the slip to sign, and then surrenders her credit card. When she takes the shopping bags from him, he lets himself say, “Thank you, Ms. Smoak. Have a good trip.”

She laughs, just for a moment, and nods. “Thanks, Daniel. If I don’t die of exposure on Suck Island, I’ll write very detailed customer reviews for this stuff.” With her free hand, she draws her headline in the air: “ _ Camping Items for People Who Hate Camping _ .” She gives him a little wave and turns to leave.

It doesn’t occur to him until she’s gone to wonder whether she’s bringing her bow to hunt for food, but tucks that question away to ask the next time she comes by the store.

Daniel doesn’t see Felicity Smoak for a year and a half.

 

& & &

 

On a bright spring day in late May, Daniel is reorganizing an end cap display of anti-microbial quick-drying underwear when he hears the distinctive sound of someone walking purposefully in heels. 

He glances up and sees Felicity, which brings his motions to an abrupt halt.

Her ponytail is shorter these days, but the glasses and the bright colors are the same as he remembers -- in fact, she’s wearing a deep indigo sundress with white geometric designs all over it. It’s definitely eye-catching. He’s pleased to see her, but Daniel can’t help the slight disappointment when he sees that she’s walking hand in hand with someone.

He still flushes with happiness when Felicity spots him and grins. 

“Hi!” she chirps, redirecting the tall, broad, infuriatingly handsome man beside her towards Daniel. “You helped me with survivalist gear!”

The man beside her turns a disbelieving look her way. “Survivalist gear?” he echoes.

“Yes,” Felicity answers, “for when Dig and I--” She cuts a quick look at Daniel, clearly weighing her words-- “joined you for  _ island  _ camping that one time.”

The man’s brow furrows momentarily in confusion. “You didn’t bring gear with you,” he points out, and Daniel’s gaze catches on the fact that they’re still holding hands. And kind of  _ gazing _ at each other. The other man is clearly Felicity’s boyfriend, and Daniel feels a resigned kind of acceptance at the realization.

Felicity gives an exaggerated shudder. “You didn’t see that awful plane we jumped out of.”

At that unexpected revelation -- she jumped out of a  _ plane _ ? -- Daniel can’t help the choking noise of surprise he makes. They both turn to him.

Felicity leans into the her boyfriend’s side and explains, the words tumbling out, “Yeah, we did a little sky-diving. And then also we didn’t have as much room as we should have had for the gear I bought. But I really loved the clothing! And that backpack. Super cute. I use it now for--” She wrinkles her nose-- “for the gym. When I go.” She pauses, then adds in a whisper, “Which is never.” Before Daniel can react, she turns a very unconvincing glare on her companion. “I already have gear!” she says accusatorily. “If you hadn’t scrambled my brain with all of--”

“ _ Felicity _ !” her boyfriend interrupts, leaning into her.

Wide-eyed, Felicity glances at Daniel and then nods. “With... with...  _ whisking me out of town so quickly _ , we wouldn’t need to buy more camping stuff!” She’s half-turned towards her boyfriend, her free hand pressed against his chest. 

“You bought a tent?” her boyfriend asks, amusement in his voice, and now that Daniel’s looking at him, he seems very familiar. And really just unfairly good looking. 

“Just a bedroll,” Daniel answers absently. “Not a tent.” At which point it occurs to him that he probably shouldn’t remember the precise details of a purchase Felicity made over a year ago. He cuts a quick glance at the other man, who’s got a surprisingly empathetic look on his face, like maybe he understands why Daniel remembers and doesn’t begrudge him for it. 

“Oh, that’s right,” Felicity sighs. “So we definitely need a tent.” She reaches up with her free hand, laying it flat on her boyfriend’s chest. “I’ve agreed to your crazy idea to sleep  _ outside _ for a night, but I draw the line at open air. Because bugs.” She shudders, turning back to Daniel. “We need insect repellant, too. And one of those candles that smells gross. And do you sell mosquito netting?”

Felicity’s boyfriend laughs. “We don’t need mosquito netting inside the tent,” he says. 

“Better to be safe than sorry,” she singsongs at him, and her boyfriend just grins down at her like she’s the best thing in the entire world.

When it becomes clear they’re happy to just stand there smiling at each other, Daniel shuffles his weight, looking over towards the camping section. “We’ve got quite a selection of tents,” he prompts.

“Great!” the other man says, and they follow Daniel to the tents. 

As he’s explaining their tent options, Daniel learns they’re on some sort of long road trip. Or, at least, they’re  _ heading out _ on a long road trip (“We didn’t get very far yesterday,” Felicity comments with a flush on her cheeks) and the boyfriend -- whose name is Oliver, apparently -- has persuaded Felicity to spend a night or two out on the Pacific Coast Trail. Hence the need for a tent.

Daniel nods to himself. He can’t possibly be envious watching Oliver and Felicity interact -- they’re practically glowing with happiness. 

Once Oliver and Felicity select a tent -- after a strange conversation about trunk space, and whether you can call it a trunk if it’s in the front of the car -- Oliver swings through a nearby aisle and shops quickly and efficiently for a small lantern, a firestarter, and a fleece bedroll for two. 

As Daniel leads them over to the nearest counter to ring up their purchases, he glances at Felicity curiously. “Did you bring your bow on this trip?” he asks, beginning to scan price tags. “Planning to do any hunting?”

For a moment, Felicity and Oliver watch him with matching puzzled looks, then Felicity breaks into a nervous laugh. “Oh! Right. No, I didn’t -- haven’t had as much time for my archery the last year or so,” she explains quickly.

Oliver presses his lips together, watching Felicity with one eyebrow lifted in a silent question. “Your archery,” he repeats neutrally. 

“Yup!” Her hand is looped around Oliver’s bicep, and she uses her free hand to pat his chest as she glances over at Daniel. “Daniel, here, helped me when I was shopping for a new bow a couple years ago. For my archery. You know how I like to arrow squirrels?” She lifts her arms and makes a truly  _ terrible _ approximation of pulling back a bow string, and Daniel is certain that Felicity Smoak is not an archer.

He glances over at Oliver, who’s just staring at his girlfriend with something close to adoration on his face. “I loved that new bow,” he tells her. When she swats his chest, Oliver corrects himself. “I loved watching you with your new bow.” 

Felicity bites her lip for a moment, then turns back to Daniel. “Oliver’s quite the outdoorsman, but he isn’t much into... arrowing things. I mean, obviously he likes to watch me--” She ignores the huff of laughter from her boyfriend and rushes on-- “when I’m out there with my bow, and he wishes he could arrow like me, but...” She gives an exaggerated shrug and says, “Some people just lack the natural talent for archery.”

Oliver turns his head, pressing a kiss to her temple in what Daniel recognizes as a poor attempt to hide a smile. “True,” Oliver mutters, his hand sneaking around her waist to pull her closer. “Archery takes a certain amount of patience.”

Felicity lifts her chin. “And you know me -- I’m all about patience.”

They just stand there beaming at each other again, so Daniel averts his gaze, totaling their purchases and announcing the sum. Felicity and Oliver squabble a little about who’s going to pay for the camping gear, but Oliver wins, handing over his credit card.

And -- okay. Huh. Oliver is Oliver Queen, which must be why he’d seemed so familiar. 

As Daniel swipes the card, he feels some more of the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. He remembers his crazy theory that Felicity was involved with the vigilante, and that Oliver Queen was initially suspected of being the vigilante. 

Daniel slides the credit slip across the counter for Oliver to sign, and acknowledges to himself that the man standing here in Pendrell’s definitely has the physicality to be the vigilante. He’s also sure Felicity didn’t buy that bow for herself, and they’re both clearly lying about that now.

Daniel glances surreptitiously at them, observing the easy affection, the tight bond, and wonders whether he’d been right all those months ago. Could Oliver Queen actually be the vigilante? Was Felicity Smoak his partner in crime? Except -- didn’t he read a few weeks ago that the Arrow had supposedly been killed? Maybe that was a ruse, a way out of a life of vigilantism. 

Are they taking a long overdue vacation because his bow-and-arrow-wielding alter ego has been laid to rest?

Numbly, Daniel hands over the large shopping bags, realizing a bit late that Felicity is watching him closely. He tells himself to smile, but it feels weird on his face. He’s always been a terrible actor. “Nice to see you again,” he tells her. That, at least, is genuine, and he hopes it’s enough.

“You, too,” Felicity answers, but she exchanges a slightly worried look with Oliver, and Daniel realizes that she knows he’s made some connections.

Which means they might consider him a liability -- mildly terrifying thought, considering the vigilante’s body count.

Daniel takes a big breath and glances from Oliver’s stony expression to Felicity’s poorly concealed worry. “Thanks for all you’ve done,” he manages. “For Starling.” He really, really hopes they understand what he’s saying -- that their secret’s safe with him.

For a long, tense moment, Oliver and Felicity just stand there watching him, then Oliver glances at Felicity, and gives Daniel a terse nod. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Daniel,” he says, and it's a non-admission admission, “but thanks for your help.”

And just like that, the strange tension dissipates. 

This time, Felicity’s smile is genuine. “Thank you, Daniel.”

Oliver shifts the two bulky bags to one hand and wraps his free arm around Felicity’s waist. She leans into him as they make their way towards the door. The last Daniel hears, they’re bickering good-naturedly over how many nights they’ll be camping on the Pacific Coast Trail. He doesn’t hear the resolution, but he figures Oliver will end up doing what Felicity wants. Cheerfully.

Daniel heaves a relieved sigh. “Have a nice road trip,” he calls out, belatedly, and Felicity glances back to give him a smile and a wave.

He doesn’t see Felicity or Oliver again, but he keeps up with them through the news. Their engagement, the attack that left Felicity paralyzed, her miraculous technology-enabled recovery, their breakup, their unexpected marriage -- all of it.

Three years later, Daniel is  more than a little smug when Mayor Oliver Queen of Star City announces on TV that he is the Green Arrow. 

Daniel sends a congratulatory card to City Hall with a Pendrell's gift card.

-30-

  
  
  



	112. figure skating AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t help it. Figure skating AU nonsense. Because yeah. Parlez-vous Olympics?

 

“Frak!”

The fifth time Felicity under-rotates her triple axel, she groans and stays down, the cold seeping through her compression leggings. She can do the jump – she can! 

Usually. But something is throwing her off today.

“Stupid, slippery ice,” she mutters to herself. It’s silly – something her mother used to say when she was a cute little seven-year-old biting it on waltz jumps.

Oliver Queen, her partner of a mere three weeks – who,  _of course_ , has a perfect triple axel and a couple quads in his arsenal, because have you  _seen_  him? – skids to a stop beside her. He looks her over carefully. “You okay?”

Stuck somewhere between frustration and embarrassment, she forces a smile. “Fine,” she answers, still trying to be on her best behavior with him. Which means keeping a handle on her unfiltered thoughts. And, you know,  _landing her jumps_. 

Also, she  _is_  actually fine. She’s been falling on her ass on the ice for a decade, so bruises are just kind of par for the course.

Oliver nods, the hint of a smile on his face, and offers his hand. “Let’s run through the footwork.”

She narrows her eyes at him, ignoring the helping hand and pushing herself somewhat awkwardly back to her feet. She’s still trying to figure out what his game is – she’s heard stories about his rather lackluster attentiveness as a partner, but since they started working together, he’s been downright solicitous. In Felicity’s experience, such exaggerated chivalry is almost always about doubting her abilities.

She is, after all, the poor skater from Vegas who made it to junior nationals years ago wearing her mother’s cocktail waitress outfit with a cheap leotard underneath. She’s used to being underestimated in the very expensive sport of figure skating.

Which isn’t to suggest she has any  _patience_  with that attitude. And she’s not about to let her new partner treat her like a naif.

“We haven’t gotten the jump right,” she points out. A bit loudly.

Oliver’s eyebrows lift, and he glances briefly over at Quentin, their coach. “Right, but the footwork–”

“Oliver,” she interrupts, hands on her hips, glaring up at him – their height difference is very helpful when he’s hurling her through the air or holding her above his head, but it’s super irritating that he’s so much  _taller_  when she’s trying to yell at him for being a patronizing jerk. “We’re going to build our programs around the jumps and the lifts,” she points out, unnecessarily, “and we need to get those right.”

“I know,” he begins, “but maybe we can put the triple axel on hold for a bit and focus on something else. What about the throw triple flip?”

“I can  _do_  this,” she insists. 

She  _can_.

And while Oliver seems a bit uncertain how to react to her stubbornness, Felicity has already skated away. She speeds up, circling closer to Quentin and raising her voice. “We’re gonna go again.”

Quentin gives her an unimpressed look, but doesn’t otherwise protest. 

This partnership is his idea, after all. Both Felicity and Oliver are strong, athletic skaters, who occasionally struggle with the more performative aspects of the sport. Felicity’s prior partners have all been graceful skaters,  _performers_  more than athletes, but Quentin suggested pairing her with a skater who has similar strengths and weaknesses. She’s not fully persuaded, but she’s agreed to give it a shot.

Felicity hears Oliver coming – his legs are  _ridiculous_  and he’s already caught up to her. She reaches back, and they clasp hands, syncing their strokes in a rather effortless way. it’s been like this from their first skate – maybe there’s something to Quentin’s idea to pair them, because even with their vast height difference, Felicity finds it easy to match his movements. 

“Ready?” Oliver asks, squeezing her hand to signal he’s about to release her.

She squeezes back and they let go, drifting farther apart and turning towards the corner, shifting to their right skates, speeding backwards for a long two-count. “Go,” she says, and they turn in unison into the jump – left foot, outside edge, whip the right leg around, and  _up_.

Felicity lets her body take over, arms coming in, ankles crossed, spinning  _one, two, three_. She releases the turning position, left leg coming out and around, right skate down and –  _nailed it_! A half-second after she lands, she hears Oliver’s skate hit, and she straightens, throwing a celebratory fist into the air. “Yes!”

Oliver huffs a laugh beside her, and she grins at him. “Toldja I had it.”

He’s actually smiling, for once, holding his hands up defensively. “I never doubted you for a second.”

She scoffs at him and turns away, accelerating, wanting to go again right away. “Let’s do this!” she shouts, glancing back at him over her shoulder.

To her surprise, Oliver is right behind her, his hand outstretched for hers. “Ready when you are,” he tells her.

Huh. Maybe he won’t be a total patronizing nightmare to work with. Felicity, who has been very wary of this whole idea, feels unexpectedly hopeful, all of a sudden.

“Promise?” she asks, grabbing his hand.

“I promise,” he says, pulling her in closer, guiding her in for a lift. “I won’t let you fall.”

Felicity holds his gaze for a long moment, then gives him a quick nod. “I trust you,” she says, more than a little surprised to realize she means it.

Huh.

-30-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I dunno, I might have to play around in this little universe.


End file.
